


Wild Roses: Cold Comfort

by Ginnybag



Series: Wild Roses [3]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Medical Euthanasia, Multi, Nuclear-powered suits, The Duchess of Richmond's Ball
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginnybag/pseuds/Ginnybag
Summary: December AC 191: Six months after creation, Treize's new Wing is rapidly gathering a reputation as the best of the best. A routine patrol in space cements Zechs's status as an Ace and leaves Treize injured, revealing the depths of his religious beliefs.As the 10th Anniversary of the Fall of Sanc combines with the fallout, Leia begins to doubt her husband, Lady Une summons the Zodiac to form, and Noin earns her wings. On Christmas Eve, Treize marks his 21st with a mission he did not expect, culminating in professional triumph and personal revelation for both men.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Mid-June AC 192 _

_Khushrenada Ancestral Estate – Moscow_

 

Treize found Leia in her rooms.

 

Her bedroom was shadowed, the heavy brocade drapes closed against the bright summers day outside, and stuffy, too warm without the bay windows thrown open for ventilation.

 

Leia herself was sitting nearly motionless on her bed, only her hands moving, constantly washing over and over themselves and plucking restlessly at the lace cuffs of her blouse, as she stared into nothing.

 

Treize frowned as he took it in. “Leia?” he asked, stepping across the soft carpeting hurriedly. “Is everything alright, love?”

 

It took the blonde woman a few breaths to respond, then she turned clear blue eyes sparkling with tears up towards him, and shook her head.

 

“No,” she breathed. “It's not. Treize...,”

 

One delicate white hand reached towards him and Treize caught it automatically, sinking down to sit on the bed at her side.

 

“Leia-love, what's the matter?” Treize asked, now truly worried.

 

Leia shivered, then used her free hand to pass him a strip of white plastic which had been hidden form his view by the curve of her body.

 

“I'm sorry, Treize. I know we didn't intend again so soon...” She stopped and swallowed, then sobbed softly. “I think I'm pregnant.”

 

Treize stared at his wife, then down at the test she'd passed him, reading the clear pictographic result for himself. If it was to be believed, Leia was telling him the truth.

 

Treize felt a lead weight settle into his stomach, shortening his breath even as he fought to control it. “You do seem to be, yes,” he agreed, hating the waver in his voice. He coughed softly to steady it. “Have you spoken to your doctor?” he asked.

 

Leia shook her head. “What for? There's nothing they can do.”

 

Treize had known that, but the hopelessness in his wife's voice drove it home even further. He forced himself to smile at her warmly, summoning up all his command and diplomatic training as he did so.

 

“You never know, love,” he said gently. “Maybe it will be different this time.”

 

Leia returned his smile, but it was doubting. “Maybe,” she agreed uncertainly. “At least, it cannot be as bad as last time,” she admitted.

 

That was certainly true. It would be worse. Far, far worse.

 

_Early December AC 191_

_ Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5 _

 

 

“Out of the door, please!”

 

Treize, standing in the dividing door between hanger compartments where he could see as much of his unit as possible at once, jumped at the bark of command in the voice behind him and stepped aside hastily.

 

Specials medical personnel, all dressed in drab scrubs, flooded into the space as soon as he moved, splitting across the room seamlessly, following the single word commands and hand gestures of Dr Sinclair, the Wing’s senior Surgeon.

 

The place was anarchy. The shouts of the medical personnel and the moans and screams of their patients mingled with the shriek and grind of cutting equipment. Medical techs carried pilots on stretchers as mechanics freed them from torn and damaged suits. The floor was awash with oil and hydraulic liquids, with blood and other bodily fluid.

 

His eyes still scanning across the bays, Treize winced as he saw one young pilot release the zip line of a badly damaged Leo and fall the last two feet to the floor.

 

The boy staggered, taking two unsteady steps and then collapsed to his knees and heaved emptily, bracing on one hand. He dragged himself up again a moment later and wavered his way to the side of an officer who was kneeling by the body of another pilot, holding his hand as the medical tech with them worked frantically.

 

For a moment, Treize didn’t recognise his adoptive brother in the officer. Zechs's white-gold hair was dragged into a ragged knot at the base of his skull and so sweat dampened it looked almost brown; the red flight-jacket was gone and the white undershirt and breeches were badly stained.

 

As Treize watched, Doctor Sinclair reached the little group, bent over the injured pilot for a moment and then shook his head and stepped back, moving on immediately. The medical tech closed his eyes briefly, then selected a pre-loaded hypodermic from his little kit and slid it into the man’s carotid artery.

 

The pilot’s body convulsed for a second and then went limp. The med tech was already packing up his kit to move on. Zechs stayed with the body for a few breaths more, then reached out and closed his eyes and stood up, exhaustion in every line of his body.

 

His movement let Treize see the body he was walking away from and the older man had to swallow hard at the level of injury and look away. Ripped open, burned and broken, it never failed to stagger him just how much damage could be done to the human body without it being fatal. The young pilot had fought his injuries for almost an hour as his suit was tethered back into the ship, and all he'd bought himself was a Doctor’s clinical assessment and a mercifully swift death at the end of it.

 

The blond moved without ever seeing his commander, going to the next of his men to kneel with them as they were dealt with. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts himself, badly from one of them, but he didn’t seem to notice.

 

The other pilot stayed where he was, his young face ashen under the grime. It took Treize a moment to identify Otto, and then he went to him and sank to one knee by his side, trying to stay clear of the blood spreading from the dead pilot. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Otto, come on,” he murmured quietly, suddenly recalling that the younger man had only been out of the Academy five months. Treize was sure he’d never seen anything like this before.

 

“Treize…?” Stunned eyes turned to his own. “Major,” he corrected shakily. “He… he was in our class….”

 

“I know,” Treize said heavily. Closer proximity had let him identify the dead pilot as one of his former students, one that he had selected personally for the Wing.

 

He squashed his emotions on that subject ruthlessly and got to his feet again, tugging with his hand to get Otto to move with him. “Come on, now. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

 

“I…I know but….”

 

Treize shook his head. “Come on,” he repeated, more sternly. “You need to be checked by a Doctor and then you need to clean up.”

 

Otto stood but he was shaking so hard he could barely hold his balance. Treize grabbed him by one arm and steadied him, watching as the boy tried to speak again, to say something in protest, and failed.

 

He looked at his commander helplessly, his brown eyes wide and pleading and all-but collapsed. Treize caught him, pulling him close for a moment as the younger man sobbed dryly – a sound of uncomprehending shock and pain rather than the prelude to cleansing tears – and then pushed him away. “Get it together, Officer,” he said firmly.

 

Someone touched Treize on the arm and he turned his head to look into weary golden eyes. “I’ve got him, sir,” Remy Chennault said softly, his accent heavy “I’ll see him to his bed and stay with him. You won’t need him for debrief tonight?” he asked.

 

Treize shook his head. “I’ll have to speak to Zechs but I doubt it.” He looked over the other man, seeing buried reaction and exhaustion in his face but also the surety of experience. It was enough to remind him why he had wanted the man – although only a Captain, he was actually eight years Treize’s senior in age, his former squadron leader in fact, and one of the most seasoned pilots in the Wing.

 

“What happened?” he asked the Cajun man quietly. He'd been taking a wireless briefing from General Catalonia when the hanger relayed the signal that they’d had a request for disaster teams to meet the incoming suits – suits that hadn't been due back for almost six hours

 

The first and second Squadrons of Treize’s Wing had been out on a 12 hour reconnaissance sweep of the local space under Zechs’s command. It was the latest in a line of several similar missions; Treize’s way of giving his blond friend command experience. There’d been no hint in any of the initial data that the Squadron would meet any real resistance – it should have been little more than an excuse for getting away from the command ship for a few hours and a glorified training exercise, especially with Chennault along, watching for problems.

 

Clearly, that wasn’t what had happened.

 

Something had forced Zechs to pull his forces out of the field less than halfway through the sweep, and something had forced him to call ahead to the ship and ask that his incoming suits be met with medical teams and engineers.

 

Treize had abandoned his meeting with his uncle almost without the older man’s permission when he’d heard that, scrambling through the corridors of the ship at a pace that wasn’t quite a run, frantic with worry. Returning units were always met by a team of medical techs and mechanics – Zechs wouldn’t have needed to call for additional support unless things had gone badly, badly wrong.

 

Chennault shrugged roughly. “Bloody slaughter, sir,” he answered bluntly. “They knew we were coming, they knew our numbers – we didn’t stand a chance. Zechs was totally blind-sided.” He paused. “He held it together damn well, all things considered,” he added steadily. “They'd've had the lot of us but for him thinking as fast as he did.”

 

Treize found himself caught between cringing – Chennault wouldn't use words like 'slaughter' lightly - and sudden pride in his brother. Finally, he nodded his acknowledgement. “All right. Make sure Otto sees a Doctor before he showers, and see if you can get him to eat. Feel free to bring him to the Mess if he comes round enough. I suspect I’ll be spending the night pouring vodka into Zechs; you’re welcome – both of you – to join us.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Chennault gripped Otto’s other arm, taking his weight from Treize. “Come on, baby bird. You did damn well out there today.” He began steering the younger man towards one of the Doctors. “Just keep it up another minute and you can come unstuck all you like.”

 

Treize watched after them for a few moments, then turned his head to look for Zechs.

 

As he did so, a high pitched whine shattered air across the deck. Treize span in place, barely in time to see one of the engineer's backing away from a damaged Leo at speed.

 

“Down! Get down!” the man shouted, throwing himself to the floor.

 

Reflex dropped Treize to the cold metal deck, his hands snapping to protect the vulnerable tissues at the back of his neck.

 

The ship rocked around him as the Leo's damaged reactor blew, flashing heat and blinding light across the confined space. Treize felt the skin on his hands blister, registered sudden sharp pain in his temples and spine, and then absolute silence fell.

 

It took Treize 3 full breaths before he could pull himself to his feet and then he was standing, moving, hitting the break glass that would sound the emergency sirens.

 

“Out!” he shouted. “Clear the deck!”

 

He scanned for Zechs again and spotted younger man over by the far end of the hanger, bending over a man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Even from this distance, Treize could make out the strapping that indicated he had a suspected broken bone in his left leg waiting to be seen to by a Doctor.

 

Zechs pulled the man to his feet roughly, supporting him as they made for the doors at the far end.

 

A firm hand under his arm rocked Treize on his feet.

 

“Move, Major,” Dr Sinclair ordered him sharply, pulling the officer towards the near doors. “I need you in command, not down with severe radiation poisoning.”

 

Treize obeyed automatically, clearing the deck and waiting till all the other personnel were out of the Hanger before he hit the door seals.

 

He barely got half a drawn breath in the stunned silence that followed the doors shutting before another hand grabbed him, sharp fingers digging hard into the soft tissues under his shoulder bones.

 

“Treize!” Zechs's voice was ragged behind him, harsh in his ear as the younger man pulled him round. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

 

The older officer rather thought he should be asking the other man that, but he nodded quickly, seeing some of the strung-out worry ease from the blonde’s face as the gesture.

 

He reached up, patting Zechs’s hand once before pulling his fingers from his coat, then tugged his jacket back into place before looking around properly.

 

The corridor was even more chaotic than the hanger bay had been, the smaller space rammed with bodies in various states of shock and injury. The medical personnel were already moving person to person again, assessing injury, directing the walking wounded out of their way towards the med bay so they could get to the more seriously wounded.

 

Treize watched for a few seconds, then looked back at Zechs, who was still standing next to him silently. “Start a head count, Lieutenant,” he ordered quietly. “I want to know who's missing.”

 

Zechs blinked, shaking himself as he reacted to Treize’s voice. “Sir?” he asked.

 

“There aren’t as many people here as there should be,” Treize explained, still keeping his voice quiet. “There should have been two full squadrons in that hanger, plus support personnel and medics. We’re missing people, but I don’t know who. This was your command – you know them better than I do.”

 

Zechs blinked, the expression visible through his glasses given how close to each other the two men were standing. Neither of them voiced the follow on to Treize’s comment – that Zechs would know who had been dead before the reactor exploded – and the blond made to step away, following his orders.

 

Just before he passed from arm’s reach Treize caught his sleeve. “I didn’t ask – are you all right?”

 

Zechs stepped back half a pace, keeping the older man from touching him. “I’m fine,” he returned harshly. “Not a scratch,” he continued, and his tone was bitter, self-loathing.

 

Treize hesitated at it, clearly wanting to press and knowing this wasn’t the time or the place. The conflict between older brother and commanding officer was written all over his face.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied after a moment, officer winning but with obvious reluctance. “You’re bleeding all over the floor,” he pointed out.

 

Zechs hissed between his teeth. “So are a lot of people in here!” he snapped, gesturing at the rest of the room. “Most of them from injuries far more serious than mine!”

 

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” the older man countered mildly. He closed the gap Zechs had put between the two of them and reached out to touch him again, wanting to soothe, to comfort. “Zechs….”

 

“Don’t, Treize,” Zechs bit off. “Just don’t.” He shook his head, taking another step back. “I have to finish this. I won’t be able to if you keep trying to make me feel better.”

 

Treize wanted to argue with that but he knew his friend was right. They absolutely didn’t have the time, and, besides, the pilot was obviously worn out, so spent that he was snappish, clearly running on the last dregs of crisis-induced adrenaline. Treize knew the feeling well, a bastard mix of exhaustion and frenetic energy that tended to translate mostly into blinkered stubbornness. There would be no talking to the younger man until he’d done what he felt he had to, or until he dropped where he stood.

 

Turning to start on the task Treize had given him, Zechs shoved though the crowds in the corridor, his clear voice ringing out a moment later.

 

Dr Sinclair appeared in the gap Zechs had left as soon as it was clear, levelling a cool glare at the younger officer.

 

“Show me your hands,” he ordered.

 

Treize looked back at him, wondering what the medic was doing. Treize hadn’t been part of the returning squadrons; he wasn’t injured beyond a few bruises he’d taken in his fall to the decking. Still, he knew better than to argue with a doctor, so he held both hands out in front of him, wondering what the doctor was looking for.

 

The medic examined the skin closely, then scowled and looked back up at the officer. “I can’t tell if that’s heat or not,” he said, pointing to the sunburn that had spread across the back of Treize’s hands. “How are you feeling?”

 

Treize stared at the doctor in disbelief. “Absolutely fine,” he answered, bewildered. “Forgive me, but shouldn’t you be dealing with someone with actual injuries?” he asked.

 

Sinclair squinted at him. “Broken bones will wait, Major,” he retorted flatly. “Strip,” he ordered, “and answer the question.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Treize spluttered. “Do what?”

 

The doctor fairly glared at him. “Did you hit your head, Major Khushrenada, or do I need to start being really worried? Strip, now.” He gestured at the door directly behind Treize, giving a frustrated sigh. “I told you in there, we need you in command now not down with radiation sickness. Strip and shower, now,” he ordered. “The faster you wash, the less your total exposure, and the better the odds you have of getting through this.”

 

Treize raised one eyebrow, then obeyed the Doctor’s orders as rapidly as possible.

  


 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_ Early December AC 191 _

_ Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5 _

 

The hours after the immediate explosion of the reactor both crawled and flew for Treize.

 

The tepid shower, taken in the shared locker rooms just off the hanger deck with harsh chemical soap and a rough brush, had left his skin itchy and his hair lank, and the clean flight suit he'd been handed when he'd towelled off had been drawn from general stores, and lacked all the luxury and warmth of his personalised uniforms.

 

Still, he'd barely registered the lack of comfort, in favour of taking the ladder to the command centre of the ship three rungs at a time as soon as he was dressed so he could take command of the recovery operation from an exhausted looking Jean-Remy Chennault.

 

The captain had already ordered the hanger deck be vented to space, damning the cost of the lost suits and equipment if they couldn't be recovered, and tallied together Zechs's rough head count from the corridor to show they were missing 8 pilots and five support crew.

 

Treize looked at the figures, closed his eye for a moment in silent prayer, then looked back at the Cajun Officer. “It could have been worse,” he said quietly.

 

“It could, a lot,” Remy agreed softly. “Marquise is earning his stripes today, that's for sure.”

 

Treize recalled what Remy had told him on the hanger deck, noting it alongside the fact that Zechs was still on his feet in the lower decks, moving from pilot to pilot in his squadron to talk to them personally, and nodded his agreement.

 

“He is. Pass the word for a Command Briefing in 60 minutes,” he told Remy, “then go to bed and get some sleep. I'll pass you the notes from the briefing.” He paused for a moment, letting Chennault scowl his puzzlement at the oddness of the orders he'd just been given – a command briefing in a crisis that he wasn't attending? - then continued, “I don't want to see you for at least 4 hours. One of us needs to be sure of a clear head.”

 

The older officer's scowl set, and he stepped into Treize's side, casting him an assessing gaze. “Problem, sir?” he asked, his voice suddenly dropping to not much above a whisper.

 

Treize flicked a hand at his dress, answering and dismissing at the same time. “I was on the hangar deck,” he explained carefully, aware of the ears of the bridge crew, “and I'm not one for taking chances. If it's needed, it'll be yours to relieve me and take over. There's too much to be done to chance an uncertain command.”

 

Chennault stood in silence, his eyes flicking back and forth across Treize's face, then nodded.

 

“Yes, sir, he said levelly, as though he hadn’t just been told he might have the job of declaring his dying commander unfit to serve in a few hours, with all that would go with such an action.

 

He snapped a brisk salute and turned on his heel to hurry through the hatch.

 

 

________________________

 

Treize was the last to arrive in the ward room an hour later, having paused on his way to change the borrowed flight suit for his own combat kit, sturdy lace up jump-boots, stiff fatigue pants and heavy blue pullover with its padded shoulders and elbows. He'd done it both for the sake of morale – it was better for him to be recognised, together, acting normally, than looking like a patient – and comfort, assuming that him shivering all the way through the briefing in the thin cotton suit would not be conducive to clear decision making.

 

The other officers called to the briefing were in variations on the three modes of dress, but Treize didn't particularly bother to notice who was wearing which beyond noting Zechs's astonishingly red match for his own clothes, and remembering that the younger man had been missing his red jacket since his return to the ship.

 

Treize took the seat that had been left for him, next to Zechs and Doctor Sinclair and facing the ship's senior Flight Engineer, then called the meeting to order.

 

Various squadron leads and support personnel gave their reports first, leaving only the Flight Engineer and the Doctor to give theirs. Of them, the Engineer went first, apologetically detailing the damage that the explosion had done to the ship directly and indirectly, and the limits that subsequent dumps of air and heat from the hangar deck and water from pipes passing near it had imposed to their supplies.

 

“…. Approximately 20% of our water supply was suspected contaminated,” he finished.

 

“In real terms, please?” Treize asked the man calmly.

 

“We’re projected another 10 days out here,” the engineer replied, “but I’m recommending we now look to no more than half that without resupply. I’m also recommending lowering ships ambient temperature by at least 10 degrees and turning off all non-essential systems to reduce the strain on the remaining conversion units – we’re designed to run with the loss of one, but not two, and the aft unit is coming to the end of its service life. I’m concerned that over-tolerance strain will cause it to fail, which would drop us straight into real trouble.”

 

Treize raised an eyebrow as he digested that, noting Sinclair shifting unhappily. As well he might – the ship’s standard ambient temperature was a cool but comfortable 13° C, allowing for the Specials heavy uniform whilst being warm enough to shower and sleep comfortably. Dropping it to 3°C or lower would leave a noticeable chill in the air – not good for a Doctor fighting with large numbers of sick and injured personnel.

 

He opened his mouth to give his consent regardless – it was the lesser of two evils in this case – and stopped when Zechs leaned forward.

 

“Excuse me, Captain,” he asked the Engineer, his voice level but his face intent, “but why are we operating without a backup unit?”

 

The Engineer blinked, clearly not expecting either the question or the questioner. “…I’m sorry?” he asked.

 

“We run on four units; we can run on three. We can’t run on two at all. Why aren’t we carrying a spare, particularly if one unit is close to service-life?”

 

The Engineer hesitated, flicking a glance at Treize, who inclined his head; it was a good question and, now that it had been asked, he was of a mind to hear the answer.

 

“We do,” the Engineer said slowly. “Or we did. We installed the spare early in the flight, to replace unit 3, which had burned out.” He sat back as he spoke, clearly expecting the matter to be closed.

 

Zechs nodded carefully. “So we left Earth-Orbit with two dubious units, but only one spare? Is that… accepted practice?”

 

The Engineer bridled visibly. “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?” he snapped, with an emphasis on the blonde’s rank. “What are you implying? Yes, a single backup is absolutely according to regulations.”

 

“I’m implying nothing, Captain,” Zechs returned, unfazed. “Merely trying to establish something which strikes me as in need of review. Are those regulations unchanged for combat-likely missions?”

 

The Engineer glared. “What difference does that make?” he snapped, clearly not mollified.

 

Zechs shrugged. “Only that it increases the likelihood of a damaged suit or a damaged hanger bay, and since two of the four units are immediately surrounding the bay….” He shrugged again. “Has the suggestion of a second backup ever been made?”

 

The Engineer went red in the face; he knew well enough now what Zechs was getting at. Treize’s unit was all about innovation. Competent wasn’t enough and hiding behind regulations would impress no-one. Zechs had as good as finished the Captain in the unit and he knew it – the suggestion for a future second backup should have come from him, and now, if not before the ship left Orbit.

 

“Thank you, Zechs,” Treize said gently. “We’ll review procedure at a later date.” He looked at the Engineer. “Lower the temperature,” he ordered.

 

His words caused Dr Sinclair to stir again, and Treize turned to look at him. “Yes, Doctor?”

 

“I’m not happy with dropping the temperature,” he said evenly. “I’ve got several very sick and injured individuals in sick bay, two of whom are going to need stabilising surgery in the next few hours. I can’t operate if I can’t feel my fingers, gentlemen,” he quipped, drawing a strained chuckle. “Added to that, a good number of the crew either already are or are going to be ailing in the next few hours, and I have to object on medical grounds.”

 

Treize considered. “How long do you need for the surgeries?” he asked.

 

“Five or six hours, give or take,” Sinclair replied.

 

The redhead nodded. “We’ll hold temperature until you say you’re done, but I can’t let a little discomfort override engineering reality. Unless you tell me shivering a little will be medically dangerous, we’ll suffer.”

 

He waited for the doctor’s response, which was a resigned head shake.

 

“Which brings us to Medical in any case,” Treize continued. “Can you give me an update?”

 

Sinclair shrugged. “We had a complete beach of a Leo thrust unit,” he said, voice level.

 

Treize waited whilst that information was assimilated around the table. He and Zechs had been in the hanger when the reactor blew but the other officers had not and he watched as their faces showed their realisation of what the doctor was driving at. The exploding reactor had run off a short half-life Iodine-isotope core, and the Academy curriculum included just a little too much high-energy physics for them not to know what that might mean.

 

“Do you know what level of exposure we’re looking at?” Leander Aristedes asked from his seat a quarter of the way around the table, and Treize was abruptly reminded that his mandatory degree had been in Physics.

 

“No,” the doctor answered flatly. “The dosimeters in the hanger are completely overloaded. We had three people vomiting inside twenty minutes – that says the levels were higher than we’d like.”

 

There was a general rustle around the table as that was digested. Every officer there had studied radiation sickness in their first term at the Academy - when you flew suits powered by reactors all day every day, exposure was a when not an if - but Treize suspected most were as rusty as he was.

 

“Then shouldn’t you be with them?” Leander asked. “You’re the senior medic….”

 

The doctor cut him off by shaking his head slowly. “Lieutenant, if they’re vomiting that soon, they’re dead already. There’s nothing I can do for them barring a Dignitas shot, and I have nurses that can do that just fine.”

 

There was a general shiver around the table and Treize’s eyes locked with Zechs’s, seeing the sudden fear in the blonde’s eyes. He tried to project reassurance, confidence, and was so focussed that he missed the doctor bending down and reappearing with a needle in his hand until the man jabbed it into his carotid artery.

 

He flinched immediately – and not only from the sharp sting. Sinclair had just been talking about administering the lethal drug cocktail the Specials used for euthanizing those too badly injured to live in combat situations.

 

“Anti-Rad cocktail, Major. You ran away from me before I could give it to you earlier,” the doctor chuckled, having registered the flinch and snorted at it. “Don’t panic,” he added drolly. “I’ll tell you before I kill you.”

 

Treize let his expression convey what he thought of that little comment, glaring icily even as the doctor hit him with another shot. “If it comes to that,” he replied softly, really not wanting this conversation overheard, and trusting in the round of chuckles the byplay had triggered to give him cover, “no, you won’t.”

 

Sinclair flicked him an arch look, jabbing him a third time. “What, tell you?” he asked.

 

Treize shook his head, flicked a glance at Zechs, then pulled his ID tags free of his collar, neatly drawing the doctors attention to the little silver cross carried on the same chain. “No, kill me,” he clarified. He dropped his voice a little further. “I have a standing exemption on file,” he explained.

 

“Ah,” Sinclair said. “So noted. Roman Catholic?” he asked gently.

 

“Russian Orthodox,” Treize corrected, as silence fell again. “Will I be regretting that?” he asked lightly, as though he wasn’t talking about his own possibly impending horrible death.

 

The doctor gave his snort of amusement again. “Well, you haven’t thrown up on my shoes yet, so I’m not too worried.” He shrugged, then turned back to the table generally. “Share this information with your pilots and crew, please,” he instructed. “I want to know about any incidence of nausea or vomiting as soon as it happens. Without dosimeter readings, the best rule of thumb way to measure rad exposure is waiting to see when vomiting starts. The longer that….”

 

“When?” Zechs interrupted, frowning. “Not, if? I feel fine.”

 

“When, not if. At least for you and the Major. You were both definitely exposed,” Sinclair confirmed. “The longer it is between now and then, the lower the dose you took, and the less severe the follow up symptoms will be now and after the latent phase.”

 

Zechs nodded but he didn’t look happy. “All right. How long is it likely to last?”

 

Sinclair shot Zechs a speculative look. “Anything from a few minutes to a few days,” he answered. “It’s a multi-type exposure – Iodine and Caesium. We knew it was possible; we’re prepped for it – I’ll be issuing Prussian Blue and Iodine tablets to the whole crew – but it’s still radiation acting on organic tissue. Everyone’s tolerance is different.”

 

Zechs nodded again.

 

Treize took the opportunity to take back control of his briefing. “Thank you, Doctor. So,” he said to the officer’s around the table, “we have an unknown hostile, a damaged command ship and a third of our strength out of action. Let’s go prove what we’re made of.”

 

He paused for a moment, then made eye contact with every officer round the table. “Captain Chennault is currently resting,” he said evenly, explaining the Wing Second’s absence for the first time. “When and if it’s needed, he’ll relieve me and take command. I expect you all to give him the respect and assistance you would me – we’ll deal with the consequences at a later date,” he added, quelling another round of rustling as the assembled officers realised Chennault had agreed to do something that might cost him his career and his commission – product of European nobility that the Specials were, there was no mechanism in their regulations for the relief of a superior officer by a junior that didn’t mandate an automatic courtmartial.

 

He looked at Zechs. “Can you be ready to hand off control of your Squadron, if necessary? If nothing else, Chennault will need you to back him.”

 

Zechs scowled at him for a moment, then nodded and flicked a look at Aristedes. “Ari?” he asked and the Greek officer nodded immediately.

 

“Of course,” he said, offering the other blond a small smile.

 

Treize blinked in surprise. Zechs’s choice made perfect sense – as the commander of the marine squadron, Aristedes had the least to do on a space deployment and was perfectly capable of piloting a Leo besides – but last time Treize had checked Zechs certainly hadn’t been on civil terms with the other man, much less using nicknames.

 

The surprise grew even more when, as Treize dismissed the briefing, Leander and Zechs hurried from the room together, blond heads bent towards each other.

 

 

__________________________

 

Four hours later, Treize had finally resumed his briefing with General Catalonia, reassuring his worried uncle that he was fine and informing his irritated Commander of the events of the past few hours.

 

The man had scowled so hard at the reports that Treize had been concerned he would do himself an injury.

 

“Do you need a relief ship?” Catalonia demanded as the briefing wound to a close, and Treize shook his head, eager to have it over.

 

“No, sir. The ship is serviceable and we have sufficient able pilots and suits to be more than capable of defending ourselves if needs be. Dr Sinclair assures me that those injured are stable enough that an emergency evac isn’t needed.”

 

“And yourself?” the older man asked, ever insightful. “You didn’t ask me about Chennault for fun, Treize.”

 

Treize nodded. “No, I didn’t. I’ve felt better but Sinclair assures me I’ll be fine.”

 

“Certain?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Treize insisted.

 

Catalonia gave a sharp nod. “Excellent. One last thing before I let you go, then,” he said, and Treize suppressed a groan.

 

“Sir?” he asked politely.

 

“Your little Marquise… he made Ace with his sortie earlier. We’ve had the data analysed now – his confirmed kill-count is 11. He’ll likely be decorated, too. Military Flying Medal, maybe. Possibly the Distinguished Service Order. I’ll make a thing of it at Christmas. Get the press involved.” He paused. “He was a good choice, Treize. I didn’t think he’d take to it like this, but you were right.”

 

Treize inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Not that you weren’t right about the whole thing. You’re breeding a Wing of aces, there, lad. Young, well-bred, unbeatable. Bloody good PR.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Treize said again.

 

Catalonia waved a hand. “You look like death warmed up, lad. Go. We’ll talk about this when you’re back on Earth.”

 

Treize nodded again, then waited for the signal to cut off, leaving his laptop screen black, before dropping back to lie on his bunk, exhausted and swallowing against the nausea twisting his gut repeatedly.

 

He lay there for a few minutes, and had just about decided to give up and get it over with when a knock at his door disturbed him. He bit off his second groan in less than ten minutes, lifting his head to bid whoever it was to enter.

 

He swung his feet down and sat up as the hatch opened, regretting it as soon as he did it.

 

“Okay,” Zechs said from somewhere above him. “I came to see how you were doing but I think I know.” He crossed the room, closing the hatch behind him and stopping and bending smoothly mid walk. “You’re an interesting colour there, sir,” he said, dry humour touching his voice. “Here.”

 

Treize would have replied; instead he thought it better to simply take the waste-paper bin Zechs offered him and close his eyes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_ Early December AC 191 _

_ Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5 _

 

Zechs kept his back turned as Treize occupied himself with the bin, mentally blocking his ears and focusing his attention on the little knick-knacks the man had laid out on the single spare shelf in the room. He smiled at a photo of Marie he hadn’t seen before, noting that, at almost 2 and a half, his God-daughter was starting to lose her baby looks and resemble a proper little girl, if one with a fierce intellect – there was no hiding the intelligence in the girl, even in a photo.

 

Then again, with her parents, that had always been the likely outcome. Leia was no slouch in the brains department and Treize was one of the sharpest minds in the Earthsphere. Zechs knew there weren’t many who notably outclassed him for intelligence, but his adoptive brother was one of them, and measurably so, a fact acknowledged by his inclusion on the ‘watch-word’ team, the Alliance’s crack code breakers.

 

There was silence behind him for a minute, then booted feet crossing metal decking, the sound of running water and the flush of the head, the whir of Treize's electric toothbrush.

 

Zechs turned back as Treize dropped onto his bunk again, white-faced and red-eyed and still looking better than he had five minutes earlier.

 

The older officer made a noise that sounded like nothing so much as ‘ugh’, and Zechs chuckled sympathetically. “If it makes it any better, you’re the third person I’ve handed a bucket to today,” he said lightly, “and I rather think you won’t be the last – not with the state Otto was in when he passed out.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Treize replied wearily. “Thank Christ Catalonia didn’t keep his briefing up much longer. That would have been embarrassing!”

 

Zechs smiled. “A bit, I imagine. I’m sure he would have understood.” He waved a hand at Treize’s desk chair. “May I?” he asked.

 

The older man nodded once and Zechs grabbed the chair, spinning it so he could sit on it backwards, leaning on the backrest with both forearms and putting his chin on his hands. “What a day,” he sighed heavily.

 

Treize nodded his agreement, then took shameless advantage of the fact that the man in the room with him was family as well as fellow officer and let himself drop back down onto his bunk again until he was lying prone again. “Agreed,” he said quietly. “Would you think less of me if I confessed I’m not entirely sure what time it is?”

 

Zechs snorted. “A little after 9pm,” he said, checking his wrist watch, “and don’t be daft.” He tossed his dark glasses onto Treize’s desk and rubbed his eyes. “But for those bastard rogue suits, I’d just about be landing in the hanger now.”

 

Treize nodded, then lifted his head as a thought occurred. “Damn,” he swore, looking at Zechs. “I knew I’d forgotten something. I haven’t taken your report!”

 

“Or checked your mail in the last three hours,” Zechs replied, smiling and shaking his head. “Une sent you the transcript at the same time she sent it to General Catalonia, about three and a half hours ago. Don’t tell me you’ve ‘forgotten’ signing it?” he laughed, miming himself signing a sheet of paper.

 

Treize stared. “That breaks about sixteen regulations,” he commented. “Care to tell me how I signed something I haven’t seen?” he asked. “Also, how you got Lady Une to agree to it?”

 

“Easy, on both counts,” Zechs said, shrugging away the issue of the rules. “I’ve been able to forge your signature for years, and I simply told Une it’d be best for you not to be bothered with me. Et Voila,” he finished, flourishing one hand.

 

Treize shook his head before dropping it back onto his pillow and closing his eyes. “Christ,” he breathed. “Perhaps it’s best you two don’t get on. I suspect I’d be a puppet in my own command in days if you ever buried the hatchet.”

 

“Yes, well, there’s not much chance of that,” Zechs snorted. “The woman’s a class-A bitch. And I’m not the only one that thinks so.”

 

Treize shrugged. “I find her anything but. She’s harsh, yes, but very efficient. It’s a useful trait,” he said, bringing one arm up to cover his eyes with his forearm for a moment.

 

Zechs laughed again, then got to his feet. “Well, at risk of offending you horribly,” he said, daring with Treize half asleep in his bunk and both of them in informal uniform, “the rest of us aren’t screwing her. It might be affecting your perceptions.”

 

Treize came up onto his elbows, his face a study in outrage. “Zechs!” he snapped, shocked.

 

The blond simply laughed drily, and leaned over to give him a shove, landing him back on the bunk with a small bounce. “Yes, yes,” he said. “What happens in your bedroom is none of my business,” he quoted. “Whatever,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Go to sleep,” he ordered mildly.

 

Treize knew he should be protesting, but really couldn’t find the energy. “Is Chennault….?” he started and Zechs cut him off.

 

“Remy’s been up and about for about an hour and has everything well under control,” he said, tugging the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed and tossing it over the older man lightly. “I’ll check in with him before I turn in, but I doubt he needs me to. He has Hilly keeping him company and Sweet Robin is currently taking strips out of Engineer Simmonds. He is Not Happy,” he emphasized. “Xavi and Ari have set up to alternate reconnaissance sweeps. Xavi’s out at the moment. Ari’s resting. Go to sleep, sir,” he repeated. “We’ve got it.”

 

Treize nodded, wondering at his uncharacteristic willingness to yield. Dr Sinclair had warned him about the fatigue when he'd reported the start of the nausea but he hadn't thought he meant this sudden and total exhaustion.

 

A moment later heard booted feet cross his room and the hatch open and shut.

 

As he drifted off, he found himself wondering when Zechs had gotten on such good terms with his fellow Squadron leads that he was calling every one of them by their informal names. Captain Chennault, Marchioness de Valois, Baronet Muskerry, Don Velasquez and Prince Aristedes, and he was calling them Remy, Hilly, Sweet Robin, Xavi and Ari something he wouldn’t be doing to Treize unless the individuals involved had said he could.

 

Being accepted as a peer by that group wasn’t bad going for less than six months of active service, Treize mused, recalled that he’d forgotten to tell Zechs of his new Ace status and his impending Decoration, then sighed and let sleep take him.

 

_____________________________

 

Zechs closed Treize’s door behind him with a small frown on his face, shaking his head ruefully. There weren’t many instances of him seeing Treize completely defenceless as he had been just then, but it had happened, and seemed to be happening more frequently as time passed.

 

Still, he didn’t like seeing his brother unwell, although knowing it had been six hours since the reactor had blown did settle some of the fear Zechs had been feeling for the older man. A conversation with Aristedes as they'd left the briefing had given him a brief overview of dose levels, lethality and how that related to the speed a person vomited after exposure, and he knew now that the dose Treize had likely taken would be unpleasant but almost certainly not lethal.

 

Which was good, all things considered. Treize would have cursed if he’d known, but Zechs hadn’t missed his conversation with Dr Sinclair during the briefing, where he'd reminded the Doctor that he wasn’t permitted the use of the Dignitas shot in his case.

 

And how – and why - hadn’t he known that little fact about Treize? The use of the Euthanasia regulations was highly controversial to the rest of the Alliance, he knew, but in the Specials it was regarded only as good sense. What individual wanted to suffer when there was no real chance of life and what royal or noble family needed the disaster that would be the return of an officer in a position of power who had only just escaped such, with the physical and mental injuries that would entail? Zechs agreed with the sentiment, and had signed the paperwork without hesitation on enlistment, as had every one of his class mates as far as he knew. Given that Treize had never mentioned anything different, and had certainly never raised any objections, he had assumed the same was true for him, as well.

 

Knowing now that wasn’t the case was jarring, not least for the reason Treize had given. Zechs had known he was given to vague religious leanings, especially since he had seen the little cross before and had occasionally heard him pray, but he hadn’t known just how seriously Treize took his faith.

 

“Credit for them?” someone said behind him, and Zechs snapped his head round to come face to face with Leander Aristedes.

 

“Not worth the change,” Zechs dismissed, not wanting to explain what he had been thinking to the other officer, for fear of having to explain all the background that came with it. By now, Leander had some notion that Treize and Zechs had more of a relationship than Commander and Lieutenant, but not what, or how much.

 

“Sure?” the other man asked, drawing level and falling into step. “You look fretful. The Commander's not in trouble, is he?” he continued, looking and sounding genuinely concerned.

 

It was one of the things Zechs had noticed very early on, that. That his own loyalty and concern for Treize were unquestioning was a given, but it seemed to be the case for all the other senior officers in the Wing as well, and for a good number of the pilots. Treize seemed to inspire, without trying at all, a natural, fierce and personal loyalty from almost everyone he commanded.

 

Zechs shook his head. “He’s puking and shattered, but he’s fine. He’s just been briefing General Catalonia,” he explained, knowing Treize wouldn’t care about this other senior officer having the details of his condition as readily as he knew that he would have flipped if Zechs had told Otto.

 

Aristedes smiled, looking genuinely relieved. “That’s good.” He gave it a beat, letting the rap of their boots fill the air. “Have you spoken to Otto?” the Greek Prince asked.

 

Zechs flicked the other blond a curious look, tilting his head as they turned the corner that lead to the inter-deck ladder. “A couple of hours ago, why?”

 

Leander took the steps to the deck below two at a time, waited for Zechs to join him, then shrugged. “Just wondering. Remy was looking after him but he chucked him at me when the hanger blew. I stayed with him till the Commander called his briefing but I’ve been busy since.” He bit his lip in a little quirk that Zechs personally found cute as hell. “He seemed a bit freaked out.”

 

“He is,” Zechs agreed. “I tossed him into his bunk to sleep it off, but he’s going to feel like shit when he wakes, the amount he drank to get him there.”

 

Leander laughed at that. “Well, we’ve all done that,” he chuckled. “As long as he can fly in a reasonably straight line, no-one’ll care, especially not Remy.” He rolled his eyes, then sobered. “The pilots are talking, though. Was it really that bad?”

 

Zechs shrugged tightly. “7 dead pilots, and that was before the reactor blew. Not what I’d call a successful mission.” He stopped by his bunk room and keyed in the code that would release the door, inviting the other pilot in with a tip of his head.

 

The door hissed shut, the lights flicking on automatically as the sensors built into the walls registered movement, the dim red glow of the emergency lighting that Treize had ordered as part of the attempt to reduce the strain on the damaged ship. Zechs hated it; it gave him a splitting headache after an hour or so and did nothing for his nerves. He’d been avoiding his bunk for just that reason.

 

Leander followed him, dropping into the desk chair without waiting for further invite – he’d been in Zechs’s rooms here and at the base often enough in the last four and half months that they were past formality like that.

 

Zechs thumped onto the edge of his bunk with none of his normal control and bent to unlace his boots, kicking them off and pulling black-socked feet onto the blankets as he yanked his pillow free, tossed it to the foot of the bunk and rolled to sprawl on his front, elbows on the pillow, chin on his hands.

 

After a moment, he rolled up a bit, and used one hand to tug out the tie that was keeping his hair up and off his face in the rough ponytail he used for the lengthening locks when he needed them out of his way or didn’t have time to brush them out properly.

 

He raked his fingers through them, fluffing them around his face and past his shoulders, shaking them out like a cat settled its fur.

 

Leander chuckled indulgently, the sound soft and knowing. The last four and a half months had seen them do more than build informality together; Leander was close on as regular a guest in Zechs’s bed as Otto, and if he was not, and never would be, the particular friend that Otto was, nor did the other man try for it, which was sometimes as welcome as Otto’s fierce and protective devotion.

 

“What a bitch of a day,” Zechs sighed, a variation on what he’d said to Treize.

 

Aristedes nodded his agreement. “Not ideal, definitely, but you’ve come out of it pretty well. The pilots really are talking, and some of the things they’re saying…” He tipped Zechs a speculative, demanding look. “What did happen out there? I’m hearing all sorts of stories about you basically doing the fucking impossible repeatedly and saving everyone’s arse.”

 

Zechs winced. “Not everyone’s,” he reminded shortly.

 

“Close enough,” Leander fired back. “False modesty doesn’t suit you, by the way.”

 

The younger blond stared at his companion in open disbelief for that comment, then buried his face in his pillow and shook his head. “It wasn’t false modesty,” he mumbled. “Fuck,” he swore suddenly, the long line of his body tensing as he gave a low, muffled moan.

 

There was silence in the room for a moment, then the bed dipped under him and Zechs felt a wash of body heat against the bare skin of his hands and neck as strong hands dug into his shoulders.

 

“Bloody coat,” Leander complained, though Zechs wasn’t wearing his customised flight jacket, having stripped it in the cockpit of his Leo as he fought the rebel suits, overheated and needing not to sweat himself into dehydration. “I always forget you’re a rookie.”

 

Zechs would have protested that normally. Six months in the unit, upwards of a dozen combat sorties, not including today’s, and hundreds of hours in command of his Squadron had left him feeling anything but a new officer anymore, despite the fact that he was only just having to polish the leather and metal on his uniform.

 

Not today, though. Today he had felt exactly what he was, a sixteen year old boy barely out of training and not nearly experienced enough for the situation he had found himself in. There had been moments, out in the black of space, where he’d been a heartbeat from screaming at Captain Chennault to take overall command and only Treize’s voice in his head, the voice of his training, insisting that hesitation and doubt on his part would likely be disastrous, had kept him from doing it.

 

He nodded wordlessly, feeling the sights and sounds of the day he’d been blocking with constant movement since he’d landed in the hanger deck bubble up from the seething tide of poison that forever washed in the blackest parts of his mind. As always, his powerful memory gave him the replay in full colour and sharp sound, and he shuddered as he heard the choking, cut-off scream of Officer Iga Broze wash through his radio feed, saw the blinding flash of her suit vaporising as the unit was assaulted from all sides without warning.

 

She had been the first loss, but not the last, and the names of the men and women he hadn’t been fast enough, smart enough, experienced enough to command into saving themselves were suddenly repeating in his head over and over, shortening his breath as adrenalin surged.

 

Leander’s hands dug in harder, biting into the heavy muscle across Zechs’s shoulders. “Easy Marquise,” he commanded firmly. “Breathe it off.”

 

Zechs fought himself to obey, drawing on his training and all the techniques he’d been taught throughout his childhood. He’d thought, in all the years before he’d been a serving soldier, that the hard bit of the deal he’d struck would be pulling the trigger, but, in the end, the anger he carried at what had been done to his country and his people had made that easy. This, though, this… this idea that men and women he’d known, had served with, had been responsible for were dead when they needn’t have been, when if he’d just been better, older, _more_ was hitting triggers even he hadn’t known he had and he was suddenly going to pieces.

 

“Breathe it off,” Leander insisted. “You do not get to go freaky on me, Marquise.”

 

The older blonde’s words were hard, but his tone and the steady grip on his shoulders told Zechs that Leander understood and sympathised. “…sorry…” Zechs managed. “…I thought… I’d be able to help now….”

 

He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t known he was going to say it until he had… and, yes, it was exactly what the Greek Prince had told him not to do.

 

“Jesus…” Leander said softly. “Marquise…come on.” His hands bit down to the point of pain. “ _Peacecraft…_ ” he tried, and Zechs shuddered again.

 

“Don’t!” he warned.

 

Leander shifted where he was sat. “Okay,” he agreed. “I get it, though,” he said steadily. “Now, for fuck’s sake, breathe this off. I’m not your boyfriend or your bunkie and I cannot be arsed spotting for you so save the angst for Otto.”

 

That was Leander top to toe. Blunt, brisk and all over boundaries everyone tiptoed round. He was also the only other Royal serving in the Wing, and that made his use of Zechs’s real name, usually the cue for a complete melt down, something that actually helped. Leander might just, actually, get what Zechs had been trying to explain and understand the parallels that his fucked-up head was drawing between the country he’d failed to keep safe and the pilots he’d failed to save.

 

He drowned another low moan into his pillow, then forced himself to inhale again slowly. “Christ,” he sighed. “I need a drink.”

 

Leander laughed softly. “I’ll bet. Can’t oblige you, though. If the Commander’s still down sick when Remy needs to go off-shift, you’ll have to be fit to take the Wing.”

 

That comment made Zechs tense up all over again. “Sorry, what?” he asked, looking up at the other man for the first time in minutes.

 

“Hadn’t you realised?” Leander chuckled. “You’re 1st Lieutenant; have you forgotten the Wing Command Order, Marquise? The Commander, then Chennault, then you. Roll over,” he said, smirking a little and patting Zechs on his hip.

 

“What?”

 

“Roll over,” Leander repeated. “Get with it, baby bird,” he taunted, shoving a little. “I can’t get you a drink but I can take the sting out of the day for you a little.”

 

Zechs rolled over obligingly, resettling flat on his back, but he shook his head. “I’m exhausted, I’d be useless,” he said honestly.

 

The other officer laughed wickedly, his hands going to the fly of Zechs’s fatigue pants and pulling it down. “Well, yes,” he agreed. “But I didn’t say I needed you to do anything right now.” He slipped his hand past the undone zipper, finding black cotton and tugging it out of his way. “You can return the favour later if you like. I’m sure I won’t mind.”

 

Zechs returned the smirk, letting his eyes flash his gratitude as he dropped his head back onto his pillow, closing his eyes as Leander took him in hand.

 

Expecting the older officer to bring him off that way, he jolted in shock a moment later when he felt warm breath tease over his length, followed quickly by a wet mouth and strong jaw.

 

He lifted his head to see the older blond had dropped to his knees by the side of his bunk and was already working diligently.

 

“Won’t mind,” Zechs repeated. “Right,” he drawled, then sank back and let his mind blank under the white haze of pleasure.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_ December 15th AC 191 _

_ Alliance Central Command – Paris, France _

 

Zechs shot Treize a concerned look, knowing his dark glasses would hide the look from everyone else and knowing that the older man would catch it anyway.

 

Sure enough, Treize turned his reddish head enough to briefly meet the blonde’s gaze questioningly. “Lieutenant?” he asked, inviting the question, even as his tone firmly reminded the younger man that he was the junior officer and should speak only when spoken to.

 

Such a shame Zechs was anything other than another junior officer.

 

“You shouldn’t be here, sir,” he said quietly.

 

Treize flicked him another look, this one brimming with irritation. “How so, Lieutenant?” he asked crisply.

 

“Uh, you did, actually, look in a mirror this morning, right?” Zechs asked in return. “You looked better at the end of that week in China than you do now, Treize.”

 

‘That week in China’ had actually been ten days at the start of October, a high-profile, high stakes intervention in the mountainous North of the country, attacking down from Mongolia to try to break the stronghold of the resistance based around the Sacred Mountains. It had been the first full deployment of the Wing, the first true test of Treize as a commander and the older man had pushed his pilots to exhaustion, his Officers past it and himself almost to the point of collapse to ensure that it was a deft and dazzling success.

 

“Oh, let up, Zechs,” Treize countered, the irritation showing in his voice now.

 

Zechs let his surprise at the informal phrasing show, then shook his head slowly. “No, really,” he said. “Treize, seriously, you look….”

 

He let a vague gesture encompass the older man, his pale face with the hectic colour spotting his cheekbones, reddened eyes and shaking hands.

 

Treize countered it with another irritated glance. “Yes, Zechs. I have a head cold.”

 

Zechs snorted at that. “No, Marie has a head cold. You have a head cold on top of Acute Radiation Sickness and a doctor who ordered you to rest.”

 

Treize let the irritation become open annoyance. “I also have a general who ordered me to attend today and several officers, including you, who deserve to have me here. I'll be fine,” he said firmly.

 

Zechs doubted that and, privately, cursed his sister in law all over again.

 

The attack on the Wing in deep space had made the news reports, the growing reputation of both the unit and its commander attracting attention that normally wouldn't have been the case. Still it had been a minor story until the footage of Zechs's response, drawn from suit black boxes and the command ship's long range cameras, had been leaked by someone in the Alliance HQ. The dazzling piloting, the inspirational snippets of the orders Zechs had barked, combined with still shots of Zechs and Treize, Remy and a few others, had sent the story viral.

 

Treize had been publicly outraged by it all, demanding an investigation into the leak and the courtmartial of whoever was responsible, but Zechs knew he was secretly pleased by the reaction. The greater the reputation of the Wing and its pilots, the greater clout he would have when it came time to push his ideas through to the rest of the unit.

 

And if he was delighted in private, General Catalonia was making no secret of being openly thrilled. Hence the ceremony they were on their way to attend.

 

It should have been easy. It should have been a glittering, press-frenzy of a medal presentation, leading into two weeks downtime for the wing before they redeployed to their new, permanent base in Moscow just in time for the new year – a Christmas which would have been marked by one party after another, each more lavish than the last to build on the media hype.

 

It would have been easy, except that Leia had seen the news footage, and had been worried sick by it, and had dragged herself half way round the world to meet the returning unit as they shuttled into the JAP base in Auckland, weary, worn and ailing, a week earlier.

 

She'd literally met them as they stepped from the re-entry shuttle, having used her name to bully her way past the security lines, breaching the rudimentary quarantine that had been established as she threw herself into Treize's shocked hold, tears in her eyes.

 

And even that might have been all right, if she hadn't confessed the next day that the reason she hadn't brought Marie was because the toddler had 'the sniffles.'

 

Further away from the blast and out of the direct line of it as he had been, Zechs had taken radiation, but at a rather low level. He'd taken almost twelve hours to turn queasy, and then had vomited only twice before feeling reasonably all right again, and fine, fit and well, if knackered by the time they were earthbound again.

 

On the other hand, in addition to the five rad-caused deaths they'd had, several individuals, Treize amongst them, had flirted with the edge of serious exposure and were suffering accordingly. Suffering which had as a symptom a compromised immune system.

 

And whilst the anti-rad cocktails they'd been taking contained broad-spectrum antibiotics, they did not contain anti-virals as standard, because, as Dr Sinclair had explained, several weeks of multiple anti-viral treatments would have had crippling side effects and been impossible to administer, whereas, in a closed military unit, possible viral exposure was a relatively small risk to assess.

 

At least until uninvited, hysterical relatives showed up.

 

Treize had been fine until the day before yesterday, then, during their final briefing before the break, Zechs had watched his Commander sicken, the virus taking hold visibly during the three hour meeting. He'd walked into it reasonably well, all things considered; he'd walked out flushed, coughing and with Zechs's hand on his arm for balance, admitting he felt 'a touch dizzy'.

 

Sinclair had ordered him to bed, stuffing him full of God-knows-what and acerbically ordering a now-upset Leia to monitor him hourly and record the results, if she could remember that much of her basic training. That he had not been impressed was an understatement and less so when he found out she was a Nurse.

 

Zechs had bobbed in to check on him a couple of times between helping Captain Chennault close out the Christmas Island base, telling himself that if Treize had to be sick, at least he was getting a decent amount of command experience.

 

He'd forgotten about today's little shindig until Otto turned up at his door disgustingly early this morning, making teasing comments abut his conquering hero and helping Zechs settle the fussy details of his Mess Dress Uniform into place, including the full length opera cape he'd never worn before, only grateful that Catalonia had shown mercy and not insisted on the full regalia of Ceremonial as he could have.

 

And if Zechs's had gotten ready, then found himself having to get ready all over again when Otto half stripped him with a lustful growl at the picture he made, well, he wasn't complaining too much, even if they had had to run across the base to avoid missing the plane that was taking them to Paris and the ceremony.

 

It was a 6 hour flight, for a mid-afternoon function, made possible by the joys of time-zone hopping – they would actually arrive back in Moscow in the early hours of the following morning, and be released to their liberty as soon as the plane stopped taxiing.

 

It was proof of the old joke about military intelligence being an oxymoron that half of the officers and men on the plane would promptly turn round and fly back across Europe to go home to their families for the duration of their leave, Otto amongst them.

 

Although, he and several others would be back in Moscow again in just under a week, to attend Treize's Christmas Eve Ball, an affair which, this year, was going to be ridiculously lavish, given that it was also his 21st Birthday. The length of the Guest List alone had made Zechs's head hurt when Treize had asked him to help with the arrangements.

 

Now, though, sitting in the overly-gilded Hall at Alliance Command, hearing the rustle of wool and braid and silk and satin from the hundreds of assembled Officers and Guests, it was worry that was causing Zechs's head to hurt. Treize had slept the flight through and was riding a cocktail of drugs to blunt his symptoms, but what had been a mild cold in his daughter was practically full-blown flu in him and he was distinctly suffering.

 

Exchanging a glance with Captain Chennault on Treize's other side he saw his concern reflected, but also a certain amount of acceptance of what the Commander had said in the way that the older man shrugged and turned his attention back to his programme.

 

Zechs took a bracing breath, and forced himself to do the same. Treize's appreciative touch to his arm a moment later was reward enough.

 

****************

 

Four hours later, Zechs was bored of listening to overweight, over-the-hill generals witter on, even more bored of making small talk with their half-starved, vapid wives and thoroughly sick of having flash bulbs go off in his face. Worse, he just knew his plastered on smile was starting to look like the grimace it truly was, despite his best efforts.

 

There'd been about five minutes of the whole bloody day that had been worth anything, as far as he was concerned, those which had followed General Catalonia's formal presentation of his Military Flying Medal and Remy's Distinguished Service Order, when Treize had gotten to his feet and made the shortest speech of his career to date, thanking his Officer's for their talent and dedication and congratulating them on their medals. Ill or not, the look in his eyes as he'd pinned the medal to Zechs's jacket – his right as his Commander, under Specials Regs – had been brimming with pride and affection, almost as warm as the hug he would have offered had they been anywhere else.

 

Still, where he would have run and hidden in a corner on any other day, now he forced himself to stay on his feet and mingling, actively seeking attention from the Press, doing his best to soak attention away from his Commander.

 

Scattered through the room, he knew that the other Officers of the Wing were doing the same, even if Une was standing next their seated Commander, scowling icily at anyone who approached him too closely.

 

Of course, that was drawing all the wrong sorts of attention all by itself and he was surprised at Treize for letting her do it.

 

Smiling falsely at the latest reporter to accost him, Zechs excused himself and approached his brother, and his watchdog.

 

“What are you doing?” he hissed at Une as he drew level. “You're as good as advertising that there's something wrong?”

 

Une glared at him, her face in chilly lines but Zechs could see the same worry buried in her eyes as there had been aboard the command ship. “Since there is, I fail to see the harm in that!” she spat.

 

“Only in that it screws up all the work we've been doing on the image of the new Wing!” he fired back. “You're making him look weak! He's supposed to be our marvellous New Hope against The Rebels,” he pointed out, quoting Catalonia's speech. “He's hardly that hiding behind your skirts!” And he had to wonder just how shit Treize was feeling to have not noticed that for himself, because if Zechs had spotted it, Treize should have been all over it.

 

“I'm not wearing skirts!” Une retaliated.

 

Zechs narrowed his eyes. “Not the point, you idiotic bint!”

 

He pushed past her, taking Treize's arm under the elbow and applying upward force. “You insisted on being here,” he said as softly as he could, trying not to whisper directly in his ear for fear of press shots potentially even more damning than those Une had been generating. Zechs's preference for his own gender was no secret; all they needed was Treize looking both as though he needed a girl to defend him and as though he were fucking one of his male officers besides. His public image danced on the edge between elegant and effeminate as it was.

 

“Zechs?” he asked, equally softly.

 

Zechs tightened his grip. “You insisted on being here,” he repeated, tugging again. “You're going to have to do better than this. Come on,” he ordered, knowing he had no right to say any such thing.

 

Treize, thank God, obeyed and came to his feet under Zechs's second sharp tug upwards.

 

There were more camera flashes, prompting Zechs to drop his hold and step back immediately. “There are times,” he said as softly and with as little lip movement as he could, “when you being my brother would be very handy public knowledge.”

 

Treize gave him a careful nod, one hand gripping his sword hilt so hard that Zechs knew his fingers were bloodless under the gloves. “Agreed.” He stepped closer again, finding a warm smile that showed nothing of his teeth – faked entirely, Zechs knew. “Walk with me?” he asked, lifting his voice a little, to let it be picked up. “We'll find Captain Chennault.”

 

Zechs nodded, waiting for the older man to lead off, as protocol demanded and not entirely surprised when Treize put his free hand down on his shoulder.

 

Carefully keeping daylight between their bodies, Zechs kept his pace slow as they crossed the Hall and kept Treize's cover. The hand resting on his shoulder – deliberately the shoulder covered by his cape – looked guiding, fatherly, comradely, the touch of a senior officer talking to a junior he was pleased with, who he was offering advice or praise to. Certainly, Zechs made sure to give away no hint that it was a death-grip, close on bruisingly tight.

 

Smiling impishly for anyone looking, Zechs snared two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one off to his commander, raising his in cheerful salute.

 

“Your health,” he murmured, a standard toast and a question at the same time.

 

“Migraine,” Treize said, covering his reply with the bare sip of the wine he took. He smiled again for the photographer that appeared suddenly, and Zechs did the same, both of them looking straight into the lens for a few seconds, giving the man the perfect, almost posed publicity shot he'd been seeking – Major Khushrenada privately thanking Lieutenant Marquise as they relaxed after the medal ceremony, both polished, poised and dashing.

 

Treize blinked away the flash bulb, shaking his head slightly as he winced. “Catalonia will like that one,” he said evenly.

 

Zechs nodded, agreeing. He would, which had been half the reason for getting Treize out from behind Une in the first place. Half a dozen of the right shots and the Press would sod off home to write up their pieces, which would mean that they could all leave as well.

 

He sipped his own wine, scanning the room, looking for Remy and either Otto or Leander. He found Remy and Otto together and flicked his head to call them over.

 

Both other men made their way across the room immediately, and Zechs let Chennault take his place with Treize, shaking hands and smiling as the flash bulbs went again.

 

Zechs turned to Otto. “Are you carrying that might clear a headache?” he asked quietly, making sure his back was to the cameras. The question was innocent enough, particularly with him asking it, but Otto's response might very well not be.

 

Otto blinked at him. “Not feeling too good, sweetie?” he asked lightly, matching volume. His tone and phrasing were innocuous, but his gaze was sharp, assessing the blond quickly. “You don't look sick.”

 

Zechs shook his head. “I'm fine,” he reassured. He flicked a meaningful gaze to the side, knowing Otto was close enough to catch it through the glasses and sharp enough to know he was being told to look behind his friend, to something over his left shoulder. He watched as Otto's melted-chocolate eyes followed the subtle instruction and scanned over Treize, leaving the shorter man grimacing.

 

“Oh,” was all Otto said. “You've nothing...?”

 

The blond knew what his former room mate was asking; with all the various issues Zechs had, he never went anywhere without carrying half a dozen fast-acting prescription pills of various sorts. Albeit not prescribed for Treize, they were still orders more legitimate than anything Otto might have that was stronger than the couple of aspirin Zechs was sure Treize would already have taken.

 

Zechs shook his head again, regretfully. “Nothing that's a good idea right now,” he murmured. “Too strong.” And it was true. Zechs was carrying two different things that would definitely act as a painkiller, but only as a side effect of their intended use. One was a strong sedative, and would see Treize out cold in twenty minutes, his body virgin to the drug, and the other was an anti-psychotic which would have him seeing fairies dancing on the ceiling with the way it would screw his brain chemistry up, and which Zechs didn't want him to know about in any case.

 

Otto winced again. “I'm no better,” he admitted. “I could get him high?” he offered cheekily, careful to cover the comment with a fake cough. “Might stop him caring whether his head hurts or not?”

 

Zechs rolled his eyes.“Only if you don't want either of us with a career in the morning. He'd kill the pair of us.” And he would – he'd made his opinion on drugs other than alcohol very, very clear. If it wasn't a drink or prescribed by a physician, it was the devil incarnate as far as Treize was concerned.

 

“Point,” Otto acknowledged. “Though I bet he'd be fun,” he added with a wicked little smile. “I'll go ask around,” he offered.

 

“Fun?” Zechs asked lightly. That smile from Otto combined with thoughts of Treize belonged firmly in the Do Not Go There box of Zechs's thoughts. “Not thinking so,” he denied. “Thanks,” he said to the offer and turned back, knowing he was going to have to keep Treize on his feet and smiling for the cameras until Catalonia dismissed them with nothing but old-fashioned support and persuasion.

 

Fortunately for him, he'd had a good teacher.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_ December 22nd AC 191 _

_ Khushrenada Ancestral Estate - Moscow _

 

A week after the Medal Ceremony, Zechs sat in the Breakfast room at the Moscow House, staring disconsolately into his cup of coffee and trying to make himself focus enough to drink it.

 

Distracted beyond awareness, he jumped half out of his skin at the touch of strong hands on his shoulders, half-standing from his seat and splashing the coffee across the spotless white linen of the tablecloth. He'd been completely unaware of anyone else opening the door or entering the room.

 

“Jesus Christ!” he swore breathlessly, and only partly because he'd caught his skin with the hot, black liquid.

 

The hands on his shoulders tightened, setting him back in the chair and steadying him as he caught his breath.

 

“Well, that answers my first question,” Treize said softly, from behind him, and Zechs looked up, surprised all over again.

 

Both he and the older officer had gone straight to bed on their return from Paris, falling between crisp, expensive sheets as they sought to sleep off the shocks and strains of the last few months.

 

Zechs had slept the clock out, waking almost 15 hours after he'd fallen asleep, ravenously hungry and with a lot of the stress he'd been carrying for the past few weeks gone.

 

Treize hadn't been seen since, although Leia, looking so miserably guilty that Zechs had had to forgive her, assured him that he was improving and would likely be fine by the time Christmas Eve rolled round. He'd simply needed a lot of sleep, and more quiet, to get first past the virus and the radiation, and then past the sleep deficit he'd built and the mental exhaustion.

 

Zechs had taken that to mean he wasn't actually going to see the older man until his birthday, and he'd understood. If he'd been tired, Treize must have been absolutely dead on his feet.

 

Still, Zechs had woken this day – well, he hadn't actually really slept much the night before – and found himself wanting the older man's company in a way which hearkened very much back to his younger years.

 

He hadn't expected to get it, though, and the sight of his adopted brother now, standing so close and dressed in a casual cashmere sweater and flannel trousers, looking rested and well, was a real shock to Zechs's already scattered composure.

 

“Sorry?” he managed, realising Treize had spoken to him.

 

Treize smiled at him softly. “I said, that answers my first question. I was going to ask you how you were, but if I can sneak up on you like that, I suspect I already know.”

 

Zechs shrugged, feeling the redhead's hands tighten against the movement. “You're quiet,” he said, as evenly as he could.

 

Treize chuckled, rubbed gently for a second, then let the blond go and came around the table to sit down opposite him. “I wasn't trying to be,” he replied, as he leaned back in his chair, snared a napkin from the buffet table behind him and handed it to Zechs, nodding at the spreading coffee stain meaningfully.

 

“Oh, shit,” Zechs cursed mildly, then set about dabbing at the mark.

 

It got him a chuckle. “Language,” Treize chided mildly. “What would Leia say?”

 

Zechs forced a smile at the teasing, then gave it up, dropped the napkin and dropped his head to press the heels of his hands to his eyes as he shook his head.

 

There was quiet for a breath, then Treize's hands closed over his, pulling them down and pressing them to the surface of the table firmly, pinning them as much as holding them. “That bad?” he asked, and his voice was so gentle that Zechs felt his eyes burn in response, threatening tears he knew he wouldn't shed.

 

“It's been a decade, and it might as well be yesterday,” he said brokenly. “The news, your servants – it's everywhere. Everyone's talking, reporting, and there's been this thing... this... There was a piece on the news this morning about it. About the types of flowers growing on the mass graves.” He choked, laughing bitterly and hearing the hysteria incipient in his voice. “Apparently, they've changed. Someone's planting Peacecraft Roses.”

 

Treize pressed his hands harder. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “I've seen the reports.”

 

Zechs shook his head, genuine confusion on his face. “Why?” he asked. “Why would anyone do that? We're all dead, as far as they know, and.... and it can't be wise.” He looked at Treize. “The occupation forces.... they must....”

 

Treize, without needing the expression on his friend's face, knew what he was trying to ask. “Not wise, no,” he agreed, as carefully as he could, “but they do it for love and loyalty. I can't fault that, and neither should you,” he advised gently. “As for the occupation, I wish I could say differently, but, yes, it's being looked at as a sign of Rebel activity, and a serious one.” He drew a slow, steadying breath. “General O'Neegal actually asked for our help in 'hunting them down', apparently.”

 

The look Zechs gave him at that made the older man ache in sympathy. The capable, confident Officer of the last six months, who'd displayed a lovely flair for command politics at the medal ceremony the week before, was nowhere in that haunted, hunted gaze. It was nothing but the stripped-raw soul of the tortured child Milliardo Peacecraft had become on this day, ten years earlier.

 

“Catalonia told him no,” Treize promised immediately. “And if he hadn't, I'd have refused the assignment, and had legitimate grounds to do it. Don't worry,” he soothed.

 

Zechs swallowed, then laughed again, the sound broken glass over bare skin. “Don't worry?” he asked raggedly. “If it's not us, it will be someone. I know how the Alliance work, Treize – they'll probably shell the graves!”

 

There was a plan to do something very close to that, Treize knew. In fact, the plan was part of the reason he was up so early – Zechs had simply stumbled onto a conversation Treize had needed to have with him anyway, for a number of reasons.

 

“Better than the city again,” he said, knowing he couldn't shield Zechs from it, even if he wanted to. There had been talk of using this significant Anniversary for reprisals for years, and the flower-planting had only been the excuse that was needed. Despite what he'd said to the younger man, Treize wondered who had really planted them – loyalist Sancians, or Alliance operatives?

 

The details of the planned reprisal would be all over the news in a few hours, and they had the Lepedev's Ball tonight. It would be talked about – and Zechs would need not to react more than was warranted.

 

Zechs let out a soft, pained moan at Treize's comment, closing his eyes. “The city?” he asked helplessly. “They actually considered... it's the middle of bloody winter!” he said, and his voice was hopeless. He shook his head, trying to free his hands from Treize's. “God... have they any idea how many they'll kill if they do that? For a few flowers?”

 

Empathy made Treize glance out of the window at the snow on the ground, and shiver. A beaten and malnourished population without shelter in those conditions didn't have good odds, particularly not the very young and the very old. Zechs had been a robust, fit, healthy child until the Fall, but three days had still left him dehydrated, starving and hypothermic, possibly as little as hours away from death when he was rescued. There would be no rescue for anyone in Sanc tonight.

 

“They won't attack the city,” Treize promised, knowing that the Alliance command knew exactly how many they'd kill; he'd seen the calculations personally. “There'd be too much backlash.” He drew a slow breath. “A population centre would cause international outrage, stir up more trouble than it would solve. There are too many countries straining the leash already. But a strip of waste ground with a few bushes....? It's a nice, timely reminder of the Alliance's power that everyone can wring their hands over for a few hours and then forget.” He breathed again, then added, “It's, at least, decent strategy, and bloodless.”

 

Treize wasn't entirely sure what reaction he was expecting but Zechs freed his hands and was out of his chair before Treize could blink, glaring fit to kill, the broken child swamped with the utter fury Zechs carried so deeply buried.

 

“Strategy....?” he hissed. “Fucking strategy? You dare.....?” he demanded.

 

Treize stood more slowly, bracing himself even if he didn't let it show and telling himself that anger was better than misery. “Yes, I dare,” he said softly. “It is. You know it. I don't agree with it – and you know that, too. Would I ever?” he asked evenly. “But which would you choose, if you had to? The living or the dead?”

 

It was a genuine question, intended to make Zechs think, rather than purely reacting, and if Treize was doing it because he, personally, needed the younger man to understand, he was also doing it because he expected more of him now than in previous years. It was a tougher reminder than most, this tenth anniversary, but Zechs wasn't the defenceless, helpless child he had been, either.

 

But whatever his intentions and plans, the speed of Zechs's reaction shocked him, as did the nature of it; he absolutely wasn't expecting to be pinned into place by an icy glare so cold it made him physically shiver.

 

“You know,” Zechs said flatly, and Treize couldn't even contemplate denying the charge.

 

“I know,” he admitted without polish. He breathed, then laid himself open. “The suggestion to Command came from General Catalonia,” he continued steadily, “but it was my idea.”

 

The flare of rage in Zechs's eyes bordered on madness for a moment and Treize wondered if Zechs would actually hurt him. He might well deserve it.

 

Then the younger man spoke, and his voice was pure hatred. “Fuck you, you utter bastard,” he said viciously and turned away.

 

Treize took the insult gracefully, as due penance perhaps, giving the younger man a slow nod of acknowledgement instead of the backhand slap his words merited. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But there was little room for manoeuvre. As I said, the living or the dead?” he asked quietly. “I didn't enjoy it; I won't in the future. I did what I could, and believe me, please, I prevented worse. Even still, I'll accept your anger at me, but, Zechs,” he said, “we both knew this would happen.”

 

And at that, Zechs broke. “I didn't know it would be Sanc!” he wailed, and Treize closed his eyes in mirrored pain. No, though they'd both always known that there would come a day, as Treize sought the command he had to have, when he would give an order that was distasteful to them both, neither of them had expected it to be so soon, or so harsh.

 

“I know,” Treize said wearily. “I'm sorry,” he offered. Zechs had covered his face with his hands again, and was shaking with each breath he was taking. “I had to warn you but....” He stopped and swallowed. “Do you want me to go?” he asked carefully.

 

Zechs shook his head silently, not looking up. Treize got the sense that he was hanging onto his composure by a ragged edge.

 

Wondering, he took the couple of paces that separated them and put his hand gently onto his adopted brother's arm, chancing Zechs flashing into violent anger. “Illia?” he said, making the nickname a question.

 

Zechs shook his head again, then tuned and folded, knocking the older man back a pace as he got a grip on his waist and hid his face against his shoulder.

 

Treize steadied, and returned the hold, drawing him close. Zechs hadn't sought this kind of physical contact in almost a year, and then he'd been trying to offer comfort rather than seek it. “Are you crying?” he asked gently. There was a hitch in the younger man's breathing that said he might be, although he'd yet to make any noise. “You've cause enough, if....”

 

The blond head against his shoulder shook again, denying that, and it wasn't surprising. Zechs had cried with him before, for other things, but never for the country he'd lost. It was too overwhelming a thing for simple tears to cleanse, Treize thought.

 

“What do you need?” he offered, and meant it.

 

Zechs shivered against him, then coughed, pushing away, against Treize's hold, to step back, shove his hair from his face and wrap his arms around himself for comfort. He was flushed, his eyes glazed, but, as he'd said, not wet.

 

“Distract me,” he said, voice low and sounding rough. “Distract me. I can't.... if I have nothing else to think about all day, I'll lose it. I need....” he coughed again, pressing the back of one hand to his mouth reflexively, closing his eyes and swallowing carefully. “I need to not have this in my head.”

 

Treize raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel all right?” he wondered. From flushed, Zechs had quickly gone very pale and Treize had seen him hung-over too often now not to know that gesture, though he'd thought reacting physically to emotional stress more his trick than the blonde's.

 

Zechs shrugged tightly. “Would you?” he asked in reply. “Yes, the dead rather than the living, but my people, my cousins, my parents are somewhere in those graves....” he explained, and Treize flatly cringed.

 

He'd picked the attack on the graves over any risk to the still-living, in a straight choice, but he wasn't dealing with the impending desecration on a personal level. Would his choice have been different if it had been his parents or Leia in the graves? Or Marie, he realised, knowing his daughter was roughly the same age as Zechs's sister had been when she'd died.

 

And, yes, the thought of her dead, her grave unmarked and unprotected, was enough to make him feel a little sick.

 

“I'm so sorry,” Treize said, letting his voice show the honest regret he was feeling. “I gave them the only thing I thought would work. I won't,” he said firmly, “tell you what the alternative was, but it was far worse.”

 

“Please don't,” Zechs agreed. He stepped back again, and dropped into his abandoned chair, leaving Treize to hover for a moment, before choosing to sink to one knee to the side of the chair.

 

“Would sleep help?” he offered. “You look tired. You could take...” he trailed off, not sure how to say what he wanted to. Encouraging Zechs to pharmaceutical use was not something he was comfortable with, but there were times, and this might be one of them.

 

Zechs dismissed him by laughing, more broken glass. “Oh, yes. I need to see this stuff more clearly,” he snorted darkly. “The pills I use make me _dream_ , Treize,” he said. “That's what they're for. To let me process asleep what I can't awake. Great, when it's real and I have no choice, or when I can think of pleasant things. But eight or more hours of this? I wouldn't swear to waking sane,” he finished bluntly, rubbing his arms with his hands fretfully, as though cold.

 

Treize tipped him an assessing look. “That's the second time you've said that,” he commented carefully.

 

“Yes,” Zechs agreed. He gave a dry laugh. “I mean it, too. Allow me to say that it is, after considerable practice, possible to feel the edges of your own mind unravelling.” Another bitter snort. “Not that I would recommend it as an experience.”

 

“Zechs,” Treize started, more than a little concerned suddenly. “Illia....”

 

“Ask me how I know what's in those graves, Treize?” Zechs said abruptly, looking directly at the older man and making Treize panic slightly. For a flashing moment, the younger man looked fey, his eyes unfocussed and feral. “Ask me what quicklime smells like on human skin and bone. Ask me....” He stopped and coughed again.

 

Treize caught his hand and stood, pulling the younger man to his feet again. “No,” he said firmly. “No. Ilia, stop it,” he ordered, letting the command snap that Victoria had taught him and the last few months had honed flow into his voice. “Distract you?” he asked. “With what?”

 

Zechs shook his head. “Anything,” he said, and his voice was fervent. “Anything that stops me having to think. I can't bear it,” he confessed. “I'm sorry,” he apologised helplessly.

 

There was a moment were Treize almost understood something, then he shook his head slowly. “Don't,” he bade. “Distract you, hmm,” he mused, casting around for something to break the day, give the younger man something to focus on.

 

He almost suggested the new base and the state of the art simulator suite but he didn't think anything violent was wise, and none of their expected guests had arrived yet, not even Otto.

 

“All right,” he said, after a moment, choosing to combine one necessity with another. “Care to play stereotype for me, then?” he offered.

 

The blond looked at him, and his gaze was inching to normal again, pulled back from whatever edge he'd been walking. “Stereotype?” he asked, shakily. “What stereotype?”

 

Treize shrugged lightly. “I need to go shopping,” he said, trying to force his voice into it being a wicked quip. He was fairly sure he wasn't quite managing it. “And as ever I need help.”

 

There was a flare of something that might have been amusement in Zechs's eyes. “Stereotype, indeed,” Zechs said, dropping his hunched posture as he reached eagerly for the option Treize was giving him, switching moods so fast that it was a cause for alarm all on its own for the older man. Treize might not be making his attempt at lighter, but Zechs had – and just a little too well. A jump from half-hysterical grief to sarcastic teasing in the space of only a few breaths shouldn't have been possible for anyone, for any reason, and that Zechs was capable of it said something very worrying about his mental and emotional stability.

 

A moment later, Zechs almost smiled as he stepped close for a beat, rolling his eyes as he summoned the shade of his former room-mate's camper persona. “Straight men,” he sighed, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly and completely unexpectedly against Treize's cheekbone. “Hopeless!” he announced.

 

Treize blinked at the touch – it was bizarrely intimate, and not something Zechs had ever done before – then raised his eyebrows in outrage. “Hey!” he protested, and got the true smile he'd been aiming for.

 

“Well, you are,” Zechs insisted, dropping back into himself a little. “Give me time enough to get dressed?” he asked. “Where are we going anyway?”

 

Treize made his own smile stay in place. “Shouldn't you be telling me that?” he wondered. “I am, after all, bowing to your greater wisdom.”

 

Zechs shook his head playfully, banishing the last shadow of the broken, tortured man he'd been not two minutes before completely, with all the grace of long and plentiful practice, and, still, that worrying speed. If Treize hadn't been in the room with him mere seconds before, he would never have known there'd been anything wrong. The reversal was absolute and the on-command acting so flawless that the older man was frighteningly sure it wasn't, in fact, acting at all. Treize could compartmentalise when he had to, but not like that. This wasn't mindfulness technique, or command focus – it was a switch being flipped between personalities.

 

Fractured to flirtatious in the blink of an eye. It made Treize shiver a little at the implications of it.

 

He had no time for his musings. Zechs's eyes were sharp on his even as the younger man was laughing softly and backing towards the door.

 

“You'll regret that!” Zechs sing-songed, reaching for the handle.

 

Treize buried his misgivings as deep as he could, and tilted his head. “No, I won't. Not if it helps,” he answered quietly, unable to completely repress the seriousness.

 

Zechs paused, looked back over his shoulder and gave him a nod that was heavy with gratitude, then opened the door and stepped through it, feet soft on the corridor floor as he walked away.

 

Treize waved him off, waited until he couldn't hear him any more, and then sat back down at the table, more shaken than he wanted to admit by the swings of the last few minutes and feeling desperately miserable at his part in their cause.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shopping, a little silliness, a bit of honesty and some impromptu career advice.... Well, they don't ever do one thing at once, do they?
> 
> FWIW, the shopping centre is real.

_ December 22nd AC 191 _

_ GUM – Red Square, Moscow Centre _

 

The building was old, Zechs knew, old even before the start of the colonial era, built by the Tsars. It had survived revolution and communism, Tsars and Bolsheviks, and several world wars to still sit imposing, spanning one side of the Red Square in stunning architectural splendour. Glass-roofed, lit for the season, even in the snowy greyness of the day it was beautiful, inviting and elegant, an icon of former glory restored to modern perfection.

 

Zechs had been before, of course. Treize's mother had nigh-on refused to shop anywhere else in Moscow, sniffing delicately at the very idea of the more modern shopping malls of the sort Treize had taken his family to the previous Christmas, entirely in favour of classical charm and store-managers who knew her on sight and had accounts permanently open in her name. Once, Zechs had been as familiar with the layout of the GUM as he was with the Khushrenada Estate.

 

But Leia had not followed in the Duchess's footsteps – she was Colonial, and showed it in her preference for gleaming steel and impersonal staff – and Treize had never been one to shop for the fun of it, so it had been years since Zechs, or any member of the family, had set foot through the doors.

 

Still, it had not changed very much, and the central fountain and the little iron-work bridges spanning the rising 1st and 2nd floors were the hallmarks of some of Zechs's more contented childhood memories, of the years when Treize had been at Victoria most of the time, Treize's father had been away on Duty and Zechs had been faithful companion to the Duchess whenever she missed her son or wanted to spoil her little house guest.

 

Looking back, Zechs could see that she had been doing it more for his benefit than hers, but there was no doubt that her little secret smile had been genuine and that, frequently, when she'd asked for his opinion on something – a dress, a hat, a perfume – she had been because she truly valued his opinion and his taste, which, by age eleven, had been quite refined and very astute.

 

It made him smile to remember and made him shake his head ruefully as he realised he should have known then that he was gay. Stereotype, indeed – he wondered if she'd suspected.

 

“Dare I ask what you're laughing at?” Treize asked, perfectly in step at his right shoulder.

 

Zechs turned his head to look at him affectionately, seeing the ghost of his mother in the tones of his hair, the sharper line of his cheek and jaw, and in the signature eyebrows. Treize looked strongly like his father, like every other male in his family line for centuries, particularly in his eyes and definitely in the profile of his nose – a trait from the Tsarist blood they carried, Zechs had learned, looking at old photos a year ago – but the dark red-brown of his hair and the ruddier skin had been diluted by the Duchess, a blonde almost as frosty as Zechs himself.

 

“Would you be offended if I said your lady mother?” he asked honestly. “I was wondering if she knew, about me,” he explained.

 

Treize gave him a curious look, smile lines setting between his eyebrows. “If she did, she certainly didn't say anything to me. What makes you ask?”

 

Zechs shrugged. “She brought me here, a lot. She'd ask me for my opinion on things.”

 

The redhead blinked, wondering if he'd hit the reason Zechs had insisted on coming here rather than one of the larger, more diverse centres they normally used. Was he summoning happy childhood memories to combat the darker ones stalking him? Would shopping with the fashion-plate that his mother had been have constituted that to the blond? Treize, personally, as much as he had loved his mother, couldn't think of anything worse.

 

“And that makes you smile?” Treize asked, doubtfully, voicing his thoughts.

 

“Shouldn't it?” Zechs asked in turn. “She was a beautiful woman with a cracking sense of style. It was a pleasure watching her, and learning.” He smiled again. “Handy, too.”

 

Treize shook his head, his expression arch. “For what?” he demanded. “I'm all for looking reasonably presentable, but there's a limit to the basic effort that needs and not much else to think about once that's made.” He shrugged a little. “I get that women are swamped with clothing dos and don'ts but that's them. It doesn't map across genders, except for specific occasions, and then I'm usually in one variation of uniform or another and so are you. Problem solved.”

 

They side-stepped a little, avoiding a crowd gathered around a group carol singing for the amusement of the shoppers, Treize smiling a little as the soprano in the group threw her delightfully clear voice up her range, letting the crystalline notes reverberate around the vaulting space.

 

As they fell back into step, Treize caught Zechs giving him an appraising look and he returned it with good humour. “Yes?” he challenged mildly.

 

Zechs merely smiled angelically, making his shining hair and blue eyes work for him wonderfully. “You really do let Leia buy all your clothes, don't you?” he said lightly.

 

“When they're not custom-tailored,” Treize agreed, “most of them, yes, why?”

 

“Because,” Zechs said, and he was laughing now, “to quote Julian Larkspur, you do dress well, for a straight man. And you have absolutely no idea you're doing it,” he finished. “Your wife is every bit as bad as your mother.”

 

“I don’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult,” Treize complained. “And, no, she isn't. I don't think anyone ever could be.”

 

Zechs chuckled again. “Yes, she is. Take it from someone who knows what they’re doing and has shopped with both of them.” He flicked Treize another look, and smiled. “It was a compliment, by the way,” he said, a moment later, and there was something in his voice that made Treize meet his gaze, caught a little off guard.

 

It had happened before, just once or twice, the impression that Zechs was registering him in some way that wasn't, perhaps, entirely brotherly, and it always surprised him.

 

Half sure he'd regret it, Treize let his expression turn curious. “You would notice,” he commented steadily.

 

The blond blinked, then smiled appreciatively, delighted by the teasing as much as he was scandalised, as he had been every other time Treize had pushed into this area with him. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I would. Sorry,” he apologised, but he blatantly didn't mean it. “It's mostly automatic, by now. Don't worry,” he reassured.

 

Treize shrugged. “I wasn't. I still maintain that clothes are predominantly boring, though. They serve a purpose, and not much else. You will never, ever get me to pay the slightest attention to 'fashion'.”

 

Zechs nodded, chuckling at him again. “And that would be why you have Leia. Because she does. It isn't hard, though. Purpose, cut, colour, coordination,” he said easily. “Why are you wearing it? Does it fit and is it flattering? Is the colour something that suits you, the purpose and the season? And have you co-ordinated everything else accordingly?”

 

Treize wondered what he'd done to find himself listening to his mother being recited by his surrogate brother. “I know that,” he said.

 

“I know,” Zechs replied. “Hence, you dress well. Leia keeps you reasonably up to date, you wear nothing but neutrals in any case, you have almost everything tweaked to fit perfectly, and you're military-trained to make it neat and matching.” He let Treize have an acknowledging smile. “Also, you do have some personal taste, which stops you making any horrid errors.”

 

Treize let his face say what he thought of that quip. “When did you turn into Otto, anyway?” he challenged. “You were perfectly happy in sweat-pants and t-shirts till a year ago. I had to force you to dress properly!”

 

“More like two,” Zechs argued, but it was an admission as much as. “And, oh, roundabouts when I realised people would be looking. I'm not,” he said, “nearly as bad as he is, I promise. Or Ari.”

 

And knowing they were past Treize's comfort zone in any case, he forbore from explaining that both of those two maintained that he didn’t have to try as hard, because he didn't have to try as hard to look stunning. There was something to be said for being a natural platinum blond, fighting fit and touching 6 feet tall.

 

Perhaps subconsciously, he shucked the sleek suede jacket he was wearing in deference to the heat in the mall, revealing the clinging roll-neck sweater underneath it and the perfect fit of his dark brown twill jeans. Treize didn't need to look to know that the belt and mirror-polished boots matched the jacket.

 

Zechs fluffed his hair from his collar and pushed the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms, showing smooth, golden skin, strong bones and sleek muscle. He had his watch on his right wrist and a plaited leather bracelet wrapped twice around the other, closed tight with a silver clasp against his skin. Three coloured charms were fastened around the strands at not-quite perfect intervals, betraying that they had been later additions. The colours, one emerald, one ruby, one sapphire, went not at all with Zechs's outfit, making Treize curious as to why he was wearing it.

 

The blond had noticed his interest; he fiddled with it idly as he shrugged. “Otto gave me the bracelet a while ago. The charms were a graduation present from Noin. Birthstones,” he explained. “She has hers on the chain they came with, Otto put them on his tags.”

 

Treize smiled as he realised that Noin had represented the three of them in her own unique fashion. “Lovely,” he said, and meant it. “I haven't seen it before.”

 

“You wouldn't have,” Zechs agreed. “It's not exactly regulation.”

 

They slipped around another crowd queuing to see Santa, and turned to take a little flight of stairs to the upper floors, following a silent understanding to start at the top and work down.

 

“You don't wear it on duty?” Treize asked idly. The Specials Uniform Code said he shouldn't be but almost every officer, Treize included, wore some little bits of personal importance that could be hidden from view.

 

“I do,” Zechs answered honestly. “I just sit it behind my shirt cuff, mostly so it can't slip and catch on my controls. You haven't seen me out of uniform for a while,” he pointed out, tone casual.

 

“The joys of the service, I'm afraid,” Treize acknowledged. “It won't get any better.” He turned, guiding Zechs with a touch to his elbow to turn left, heading for what looked like a toy shop.

 

“Catalonia is already talking about giving Remy a second Wing in the spring,” he continued. “He needs space to exercise his own command before he goes stale and it's the soonest the regs allow your Captaincy to be applied for. We'd move sooner, I think, but if the last couple of weeks have taught us anything, it's that the Wing Second needs at least that rank.” He shrugged. “I'm not sure it shouldn't be another Major, to be honest, but that could cause clarity issues if we ever conduct joint ops, so we're sticking with a Captain.”

 

Treize was lost in his speculation, and missed Zechs's look of shock until the blond spoke.

 

“Captain?” he spluttered. “In less than a year? I shouldn't even have made Lieutenant yet!”

 

Treize shrugged again to that. “And?” he asked bluntly. “You shouldn't have made Ace yet, either, or be carrying one of our highest service awards, but that doesn't seem to have stopped you much. I told you in October when I confirmed your rank that I thought I was right to push the double promotion. I'm sure of it now, and I'm also sure you don't need Remy as a comfort blanket anymore.”

 

He gestured dismissively, but his eyes had turned serious. “I wouldn't apply if I thought you wouldn't cope, but, Zechs, three weeks ago, you traded Wing Command back and forward with Remy for four straight days under royally evil circumstances. If you weren't ready, you'd have gone to pieces on me then. You didn't; you are. What's the point in keeping you junior?”

 

Zechs gave him disbelieving eyes. “The point is that I was bloody terrified the whole time, Treize!” he said sharply. “Oh, and that the one combat I had full command for left me with seven dead pilots. How is that ready?” he demanded. “I was so scared all I could think about was letting Remy take over!”

 

Treize looked at him, assessed him, and abruptly stopped walking. “Yes, I'm sure,” he agreed. “But did you?” he asked.

 

“Did I what?” Zechs wondered wildly.

 

“Let Remy take over? Did you?” Treize pressed. He was standing in the middle of the walkway, arms folded, ignoring the irritated glances he was getting from the people forced to step around him and looking very much as he had at the front of Zechs's class for three years.

 

Zechs blinked at him, then gestured helplessly. “No, of course not. You know that. You taught me better than that!” he replied. “But it was only your voice telling me what a mistake it would be that stopped me,” he confessed quietly, clearly expecting to disappoint.

 

Treize chuckled. “Of course not,” he echoed. “Of course it was my voice,” he countered. “I drilled you. Shall I tell you I hear Liliya Valadin, and my father,” he said, a small smile softening his face. “My father always said he heard Catalonia. If you hadn't been hearing me under those circumstances, it would have meant only that I'd failed you as a teacher.”

 

He stepped closer, watching as Zechs digested that.

 

“Shall I tell you something else?” he asked, and his face was as serious as his tone was playful. “I couldn't have done what you did that day. You say you lost seven, but three were dead before you even knew you were under attack, so really, you lost four, and one of those was Sinclair's call.”

 

“It's still too many!” Zechs insisted, and it was clear he meant it.

 

Treize shook his head slowly. “Have you been fretting on this?” he asked gently. “Why didn't you come talk to me? Its both normal and needless. I would have told you that, if you'd asked.”

 

“You were ill,” the blond reminded. “And I wouldn't have believed you. I don't now. If I'd been better or older,” he said, confessing the thoughts that had first surfaced the evening after the fight, “or _you_ ,” he emphasised, “then maybe....”

 

Treize chuckled dryly. “Me?” he asked in turn. “Oh, you have no idea, do you? Do you think that medal was just a PR stunt?” he wondered rhetorically. “Zechs, you were an untried commander twice outnumbered in an awful defensive position. An acceptable outcome would have been your retreat and regroup with the loss of half your force. _You_ defended the initial attack, consolidated in situ and destroyed over 60% of your enemy. And you lost only three of your pilots for it.”

 

He paused, drew a breath, then smiled again. “I couldn't have done it,” he repeated. “I actually don't know how you did – and I'm not,” he added, as Zechs opened his mouth to protest again, “talking about the way you flew, which was nothing short of astonishing.”

 

Zechs's face was pure confusion, his eyes doubting. “Treize, that's nonsense,” he said.

 

The redhead shook his head. “No, it really isn't. Your Academy scores said it, and now you've proved it. You have me as a tactician,” he said, and there wasn't a hint of anything in his voice except genuine pleasure at the fact. “You process in combat faster, and have the better reaction time, too.”

 

“Oh, come on!” Zechs spluttered. “That's bollocks, Treize. No way am I a better commander than you. You can plot rings round me! I couldn't even _follow_ half your briefings in China.”

 

Treize's eyes flashed as he dissolved into pealing laughter. “I thought you looked glazed over a few times,” he agreed. He waved one hand in the air, then pointed at his own chest. “Strategist,” he said, then pointed at Zechs. “Tactician. It's not the same thing. It does mean we work well together though, which is what I was hoping when I set up the Wing command structure. You give me the battles,” he said. “I'll give you the war.”

 

He gave it a moment, seeing the uncertainty in his brother's eyes start to morph into confidence, then smiled. “Now, tell me again why I shouldn't promote you?”

 

Zechs smiled back hesitantly. “I don't.... Treize, you were a Captain yourself only a few months ago,” he said quietly.

 

“Worried about my pride?” Treize asked lightly. He started them walking again as they talked. “Don't be. I shouldn't have been,” he said. “Catalonia had approval for my Majority before the end of your first year at the Academy, but he sat on it to give me your second year, for Marie, and then I rolled the dice with him about the success of our little experiment to stay for your third and take you with me. He'd have had me as Wing Commander two years ago and in Paris with him as soon as I had the inklings of enough time in a command post to justify it, to replace my father.”

 

“He can't be happy,” the blond said. Not all of that was news; as they'd touched on that morning, the plan had always been for Treize to climb the ranks as fast as he could. “And, isn't a two year delay going to cause problems?”

 

Treize shrugged. “He'd have been unhappy if this wasn't working,” he replied. “Having the time away from active command has let me do other things that are proving useful, and has let me reshape our Wing. Originally, I'd have gone into an existing command – I'd have had to, I wouldn't have had the reputation I have now – and then we'd have pushed change through from the top. As for the delay... well, yes, things are going to have to move quickly, now, but that should make things more fun,” he chuckled.

 

He smiled at the blond, then patted his arm. “Now, what are we here to look for? Because I have a wife to shop for who's not very happy with me right now, and not much time to please her with.”

 

Zechs looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Hopeless,” he muttered.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_ December 22nd AC 191 _

_ GUM – Red Square, Moscow Centre _

 

They made it almost through the top two floors before Treize declared he was hungry. He dragged Zechs into a little coffee bar for lunch, forcing the blond to eat when he would just have ordered neat espresso, and touching on the real reason for their shopping trip for the first time since they'd left the estate when he reminded the younger man that, whilst he might not know exactly what drugs he was using to hold himself together, he suspected they weren't supposed to be taken on an empty stomach.

 

Zechs had grumbled at him, scowling like a storm warning and Treize had met the ill-temper with a steady gaze until the blond capitulated, confessed that the redhead was right and ordered what was probably the least substantial thing on an already lacking menu.

 

Treize let that go, keeping his peace as Zechs used the first mouthful of his coffee to wash down a handful of pills drawn from a slip-case he took from his inside jacket pocket.

 

He gave the blond a few minutes to sit in closed-eyed silence, idly curious as Zechs shivered through the meds starting to work and wondering at how fast they'd taken hold, then tapped him on the hand, reminded him to eat, and commented that he'd recognised only the aspirin of the tablets Zechs had taken.

 

“When did they change?” he asked neutrally, and watched as Zechs flinched.

 

As he'd explained to Otto, this time the year before in fact, that was a conversation he did not want to have with the older man for a number of reasons. “They're all prescribed,” he said mulishly.

 

“I'm sure,” Treize agreed. “But, considering I'm your legal guardian, shouldn't I have known if there was a problem needing such major adjustments?” he asked and he sounded like the very definition of reasonable, even as his eyes said something very different.

 

To his surprise, Zechs smiled weakly and shrugged. “There wasn't a _problem_ , as such,” he said evenly, then, “Make a note for yourself,” he added lightly. “You need to see your solicitor before we go back on duty.”

 

Treize paused with his own coffee halfway to his mouth. “I'd planned to, anyway – my birthday will change some things – but why do you say that?” he asked.

 

Zechs shrugged carelessly. “I think you're going to find your Will is out of date, that's all. I may be wrong – it depends whether you'd included me anywhere - but I've held a UESA Officer's Commission since July.”

 

The older man frowned. “Oh, hell,” he said, realising the mistake he'd just made and the correction Zechs was kindly trying to give him. “I'm sorry,” he offered, and he sounded genuinely contrite. “Of course I wouldn't know any more,” he admitted.

 

“To be fair, you probably should have at the time,” Zechs confessed, then bit his lip, seeming to lose some of the poise he'd had so far. “I'm sorry,” he said in his own turn. “I thought for certain you'd have remembered. I should have said something when you didn't mention it but I thought.... “ he trailed off, then shrugged. “Would it be enough to invalidate your paperwork?” he asked diffidently.

 

Treize frowned more as he considered. “It just might be, at that. So stupid!” he cursed quietly. “I am sorry – I have better reason than most to remember, too.”

 

He was, of course, referring to clause in the UESA Military statutes that allowed officer cadets to start training as young as they did, and graduate still in their teens. No-one was happy with children in combat, so the solution had simply been to make every Officer a legal adult as soon as they were Commissioned, side stepping the issue of child-soldiers, at least politically.

 

Every cadet was warned about it, as were their families, on Academy entry, because it wasn't possible to grant partial-adulthood. By granting it for military purposes, the regulation meant that every officer was able to vote, marry, drink, and exercise every other right and responsibility of adulthood, without parental consent being required, regardless of whether they were actually legally old enough to do so.

 

In that respect, it had been fortunate that Treize had been an officer for six months before his parents' death. Although only 16 at the time, he'd been able to cleanly inherit, without the need for Trustee's and Guardians to act on his behalf, and more fortunate still, had been able to take full responsibility for the 12 year old adopted brother his parents had left him with.

 

As it was, beyond the sudden, shocking loss of the adults who cared for him for the second time in his life, the worst consequence Zechs had suffered had been having to bear a private, exclusive boarding school for two terms before he was old enough join the Victoria Academy in the fall of the year he turned 13. Had Treize not been in that position, they would both have found themselves wards of some Khushrenada relative, and Zechs would likely have been bounced from safe house to safe house for however many years it took for someone to find a use for him.

 

“You'll need to come with me,” Treize said to him now.

 

“Sorry?” Zechs asked dumbly, having lost the thread of the conversation in his musings.

 

“To see the family Solicitor. You'll need to come with me,” Treize explained. “I'll let you have the details tomorrow.”

 

The blond blinked at him, wondering what that was about for a moment. He contemplated asking, then decided he didn’t have the mental energy and let it go. If Treize said he did, then he did. He had no reason not to trust the older man, particularly on something he personally knew nothing about.

 

Picking up his cup again, he sat back in the armchair he was occupying and sipped the bitter coffee slowly, hoping the caffeine would give him the lift he needed to stay on top of everything.

 

“You look tired,” Treize said quietly, setting his own cup down empty and brushing the crumbs from his sandwich from his fingers with his napkin. “We don't have to carry on if you don't want to. I can come back tomorrow.”

 

“I'm fine,” Zechs said, shaking his head. He found a smile. “I just shouldn't have stopped. I'll be fine when we get moving again.”

 

“If you're sure,” Treize said, but he was mostly agreeing.

 

Zechs smiled again, then jumped as his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, letting Treize lazily note that the slim, silver handset looked both reasonably new and rather pricey and that it certainly wasn't Specials standard issue, as Treize's was.

 

The blond the flicked it open, read what was obviously a message from someone, and laughed softly, eyes sparking with genuine amusement. “Otto,” he explained. “He is, and I quote, 'somewhere over fuck knows where, with the mother of all storms off the left turbine and a fucking moron behind the stick making the civvies wail with all the bouncing. Never fucking flying commercial again!' I don't think he's enjoying the flight,” he commented dryly, eyes still reading the message.

 

Treize coughed in surprise, then laughed out loud. Zechs had absolutely nailed the German pilot's pissed off tone of voice, and his face was not hard to imagine. Few pilots enjoyed commercial airlines, although it usually wasn't the fault of the crew but the plane. Heavy-body jet-liners were bound to feel rough after controlling a mobile suit.

 

Zechs typed a reply, fingers tapping at the tiny keypad rapidly, and then, as the phone buzzed again a moment later, he laughed all over again. “Oh, lord,” he said, chuckling.

 

Treize gave him a curious look, wondering what the other boy had said now.

 

“You, ah, probably don't want to know,” Zechs told him, answering the unspoken question, and the older man let his expression turn speculative and a touch knowing as he sat back in his chair.

 

Zechs typed a second reply, silently responding to Otto's assertions that he would require much fussing on arrival and that it was Zechs's turn to buy the lube, pinged a short but informative message to Leander Aristedes and put his phone away.

 

“Alright,” he said. “Where next?”

 

 

*****************

 

By mid-afternoon, they'd acquired enough bags that Treize said they needed to drop them back at the car if they were going to carry on. Zechs, no more fond of having both his hands blocked than his brother, agreed immediately and offered to make the run, murmuring that it would allow him to get a few minutes air when Treize queried whether him being alone was a good idea.

 

A single raised eyebrow had signalled Treize's surprise at the unvarnished honesty, but he'd agreed, and they'd arranged to meet in one of the little boutiques on the ground floor when the younger man was done.

 

With Treize vanished into the crowd, Zechs took a moment to rearrange their collection of bags more comfortably, then headed for the side doors that led to the car park.

 

Dropping the bags in Treize's car, a rather powerful little two-seat coupé that he'd driven personally rather than use the chauffeured state cars they took as a family, took less than five minutes, and then Zechs left the car park by the street exit rather than returning immediately to the crowded centre.

 

A minute's surreptitious searching on his phone during a rest room break an hour earlier had given the blond the directions he followed next. There were some items he needed to pick up that he wasn't going to find in the shopping centre and which he couldn't dare buy with Treize in tow in any case.

 

The shop he wanted was only a few streets from Red Square, tucked away, as they always were, discretely behind a little alleyway.

 

Pushing the door open without a hint of hesitation, he nodded at the pretty young man with the tongue-piercing behind the counter and set himself to browsing.

 

It didn't take him very long – military-training made making decisions easy – and his Russian was good enough, combined with a certain amount of mutual understanding, that he managed to get a few tips and things from the shop boy before he left.

 

He returned by the car, burying his purchases under another bag of things he'd bought earlier, and then headed back into centre to find his friend.

 

Treize was standing in the middle of the boutique they'd talked about, one of Zechs's favourites in the centre, as it had been the Duchess's, his reddish hair and beautiful posture making him easy to spot.

 

An immaculately turned out attendant was standing next to him, positioned with precision to be close enough that their conversation would be private and far enough away that he wasn't impinging too heavily on Treize's personal space; he'd clearly been a good enough judge of character to divine that hovering, clinging assistants irritated the Commander no end.

 

That thought made Zechs look at the attendant again, and then he was drawing level with his brother and smiling at the man warmly. “Zdravstvujtye _,_ Nikita,” he said politely, and both the attendant and Treize started a little.

 

Zechs waited for the man to look at him, puzzled, look at Treize, look back at him, and then he was giving the two of them wide eyes and raised eyebrows as he took a step back, clearly surprised.

 

“Master Ilia?” he asked, his voice just as soft and welcoming as Zechs remembered.

 

The blond nodded readily. “A little different, I know, but yes.”

 

Nikita blinked at him, smiled in delight, then looked at Treize again, who was watching the by play with cool curiosity. “Why, then, you must be the Duchess's son?” he asked. “It's an honour, Your Grace,” he said, bowing a little.

 

Treize took the mark of respect easily, then found his own smile for the man and if it was a little too polished, only Zechs spotted it. “You knew my mother?” he asked.

 

Nikita laughed, the sound warm, quiet, deferential – trained, Zechs knew, as much as any politician. “Oh, yes, Your Grace, for a number of years. She was our most important customer!”

 

Zechs could believe that. The Duchess's patronage had meant something at one time, to the point where a few selected stores, this one included, had asked for and been granted the right to print her Coat of Arms on their stationary, advertising the fact that she shopped there.

 

A moment later, Nikita, clearly taking his cue from the way Treize didn’t really react to that, went back to showing the man the display they'd been looking at when Zechs came in, leaving the blond to wander off alone, browsing the tasteful wooden displays and glass cabinets idly.

 

He was pondering over expensive, hand-made shaving sets, contemplating whether a Christmas present of one would get Otto to stop using the hideous electric razor he was so fond of, when Nikita appeared at his side again.

 

“Considering spoiling yourself, Master Ilia?” he asked politely.

 

“Zechs,” the blond corrected automatically, “and no. I was wondering about a present for a friend.”

 

“His Grace?” Nikita enquired.

 

Zechs shook his head and smiled. “Oh, no. He has that much right,” he chuckled, thinking back to his earlier conversation with the man. “No, Otto was a classmate of mine and serves in the same unit. He has this dreadful buzzy thing he insists on using.”

 

The attendant smiled at him understandingly. “You joined the service, like His Grace?” he asked quietly and Zechs nodded.

 

“He's actually my Wing Commander,” he explained.

 

There was another moment of blinking surprise, and then Nikita lifted his hands, seeming to shade out part of Zechs's face as his mouth dropped open a little. “Good heavens,” he said. “You're the Lightning Count!”

 

Zechs blanked at the name, wondering what the heck the man was on about, and saw, from the corner of one eye, Treize's head snap up from whatever he was looking at.

 

“I am?” he asked, bewildered.

 

“Oh, yes!” Nikita effused, and he was near to bouncing in place with happiness. “We've all seen the news footage, but I'd never thought.... Oh, my!”

 

A gentle touch to his elbow told Zechs that Treize had come over and Zechs glanced at him, looking for answers.

 

“You may have to forgive him,” Treize said to Nikita. “He's not quite caught up to his own reputation.” He returned Zechs's now scandalised look and shrugged. “Hadn't you heard that yet?” he asked the younger man. “It's been circulating for months. I thought Otto would have told you, if no-one else.”

 

Zechs shook his head wordlessly and Treize shrugged again. “Troops have always given their Aces nicknames. You know that. I've even heard you call Chennault by his.” He patted Zechs's arm again, smiled and, unaccountably, coloured a little. “Just be grateful it's not something embarrassing,” he added, almost unwillingly.

 

The curiosity that inspired in Zechs was formidable. Was Treize saying he had a similar nickname, one that was rather less than flattering? If so, Zechs was dying to know what it was.

 

“What were you looking at?” the older man asked, before Zechs could.

 

The blond waved a hand at the display he'd been examining. “Otto,” he said easily, knowing Treize would follow the logic. “He has an electric razor.”

 

Treize's little wince of distaste told Zechs only what he had expected, given that it had been his brother who had bought him his proper kit a couple of years earlier. Treize, like Zechs, either shaved properly or, when he couldn't, on field or space ops, applied a fast-acting gel to his skin that stripped the hair and let it be washed off.

 

“That seems unlike him,” Treize said and Zechs had to smile, because it did. If anyone ever fussed over their appearance, it was Otto and it was odd that he was missing such a key part of male personal grooming. “Were you thinking of a Christmas present? It's... very intimate,” he continued, his tone suggesting he was trying to gauge something.

 

Zechs nodded to the first comment. “I was,” he agreed. And not just because he was bored with the burn he got from the fine stubble the electric razor left. “And, yes it's odd. He rants about skincare routines, and then does about the most damaging thing he could. As for intimate....” He shrugged. “I wouldn't were he Ari, but he's not.”

 

Treize gave him another beat of the measuring look, then nodded. “You seem to have taken to him,” he said, as Nikita took their conversation as instruction to start pulling things to show Zechs.

 

“Ari?” Zechs asked, checking. “We get along all right, yes. Why?” he asked, and it was possibly a little sharper than it wanted to be.

 

Treize flicked him another look. “I'm not allowed to ask about your friends?” he returned, matching his tone. “The last time we spoke about him, you and he were not on good terms, yet you chose him to hand your Squadron to on the ship without hesitation, you're referring to him now and you've invited him to stay until the Ball.” He made a little gesture which could have meant everything and nothing. “I was merely wondering what changed, and when. If the question is invasive, I apologise.” He drew a deep breath. “I may not be responsible for you, now,” he acknowledged. “That does not mean I do not care.”

 

Zechs sighed heavily, registering that he might just have hurt his brother a little. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Sorry. Don't....” He sighed again. “I didn't mean it like that. I just....” He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “He came to find me after I left your rooms that day. We talked. We've been talking since.” He gave Treize a look from under his hair. “He's not you, or Otto, or Noin, but sometimes... We're similar, I guess,” he said. “I don't know how else to explain it.”

 

Treize's expression floated from irritation to surprise. “I wasn't asking you to explain it, Ilia,” he said evenly. “I'm not vetting him. I was interested on your behalf, that's all.” He smiled a little. “It's idle curiosity on my part; I'm attempting to keep up with you off-duty as well as on, while we've got the chance. If I'm not to be a parental figure any more, I needs must become a friend, or I end up as just your commanding officer. I don't want that.”

 

“Oh,” Zechs replied. “I suppose we haven't spent much time lately,” he agreed, recalling his own, earlier comment about Treize not seeing him out of his uniform.

 

“No, we haven't. Which is predominantly my fault for being busy, but still,” Treize said. “As I said, you caught me on the hop when you invited him for the ball – I'd gotten the impression you didn't like him.”

 

Zechs merely shrugged. “We were fine once I got over myself a bit. What do you think of this one?” he asked, pointing to a set Nikita had laid out on a little display table.

 

“Not my first choice, but you know Otto far better than I do,” Treize answered honestly. “He's not still, ah, pushing you, is he?” he asked, and the slight flush of colour was touching his face again. “I mean, assuming you and he are....”

 

Zechs coloured in his own turn, then drew a breath, nodded to Nikita to indicate he was happy with the selection, and shifted his weight enough to look at his brother squarely. “Treize,” he said steadily, as soon as he thought Nikita was out of earshot, “please don't take this the wrong way, but neither of us is drunk enough for you to be asking me that. You, especially.”

 

Treize bridled a little at that. “I don't need to be drunk to talk to you, about this or anything,” he protested.

 

Zechs smiled and, unaccountably, patted his shoulder gently. “Yes, you do. I appreciate the effort but you're not comfortable, and you never have been. It's fine,” he added swiftly, when Treize looked about to bridle. “I'm just the same when Remy and Xavi start discussing women. They're beautiful creatures, objectively, but I feel no draw, and discourses on some of their, ah, intimate areas and what can be done with them is just a little nauseating.”

 

Treize was definitely colouring now, his redhead's complexion betraying him. “And I wasn't asking you for a play-by-play in graphic detail, either!” he spluttered. “Can we not have a civilised conversation?” he asked.

 

“We were,” Zechs answered lightly. “And now I'm warning you we're about to not be. Neither of us needs the embarrassment. Come here,” he said, appearing to change the subject as he picked up a little bottle.

 

Treize stayed stubbornly still. “I'm not going to be embarrassed,” he protested. “And neither should you be. You should be willing to talk about what you're willing to do, Zechs. If you can't, you shouldn't be doing it.”

 

Zechs smiled softly at that, an expression that Treize had never, quite, seen from him before. It was decidedly adult, confident, comfortable, knowing. “I'm perfectly willing to talk about it, when it's relevant and appropriate,” he said steadily. “Treize, honestly, I am, I'm just not sure this is the place, and there's only so much I can say to you without including detail that you won't like. But, yes, I'm sleeping with him. Does that cover it?” he asked, then put his hand out. “Come here,” he said again, stepping closer.

 

Treize blinked at Zechs's shift in demeanour, realising that Zechs had both answered and not answered his question. “It might,” he allowed. “Tell me he's no longer pushing you into things you aren't ready for, and I'll let it go,” he offered.

 

Zechs smiled again, light blue eyes flashing playfully. “Oh, he pushes me,” he said easily, his voice rich with something that made Treize shiver a little. “Of course he pushes, but he doesn't hurt me. Have you never had a lover test your boundaries a little?” he asked wickedly and spritzed the bare skin of Treize throat with whatever was in the bottle.

 

Treize tensed, whether from the spray or the question, Zechs didn't know, then scowled. He wasn't going to answer that, and they both knew it, just as they both knew the only reply he could have given.

 

“What the hell was that?” Treize asked a half-second later. “It smells like a bloody garden.”

 

Zechs caught his hand before he could move to wipe the spray away. “Give it a moment,” he insisted. “Let it sit.”

 

Treize glared at him, sniffing again. “Why? It's awful. It smells of nothing but flowers!”

 

“Not flowers,” Zechs corrected. “Give it a chance,” he added, as Treize scowled harder and moved to wipe again, “I'm fairly sure it'll rather suit you. Certainly better than the citrusy thing you've been using all year,” he said, and it was close on a grumble.

 

Treize gave him a look that was caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. “Pardon?”he managed. “I like the 'citrusy thing',” he protested, “and I've never used anything else. I fail to see why it matters to you in any case,” he remarked.

 

“Shouldn't it? I'd tell you if you were wearing something that didn't suit and you'd not see it as odd – you've been asking my opinion all day,” Zechs pointed out. “And if you haven't switched label, then either the formula's been changed or your chemistry has, because something's not working. It's not horrid,” he reassured, when Treize's expression shifted to show upset threading the mix. “It's a nice enough fragrance in itself, but it's not you. Your cologne should be blending with you, not be sitting on your skin like paint,” he advised.

 

Treize spluttered at him a little, half at the ever-so-slightly condescending tone. “I know that,” he said sharply. “Is this appropriate?” he asked. “I didn't ask for your input.”

 

The blond shrugged at him, careless. “I know you didn't, and you can always ignore me. As for appropriate....Why would it not be?” he wondered. “I've had almost exactly the same conversation with Remy. He wasn't bothered, why should you be?”

 

That seemed to catch the older man out. “You have? Why on earth would Remy be asking you about cologne?” Treize asked and he sounded truly confused. “He's never asked me anything along those lines, and I've known him far longer.”

 

Zechs looked at him levelly, blinked, then laughed and shook his head, clearly running a train of thought in his head. “I can't imagine,” he said drily, gently sarcastic. “Do you normally pay attention to how other men smell, Treize?” he asked, teasing lightly.

 

Treize coloured a little again. “Not generally, no,” he replied, and it was a little clipped. “Why would I?”

 

“Well, exactly,” Zechs returned. “Why would I not?” He shrugged and sighed. “It was a casual question once over, that's all,” he explained. “I'm sure he'd have found a suitable woman to ask, except there are only two in the unit it wouldn't have been a harassment charge risk with. One's Hilly, which is who he was trying to impress, and the other's, well, Une,” he finished, letting his tone of voice convey everything about why the American Captain wouldn't even have considered asking Treize's equerry.

 

It was subtle, barely a shift of muscle, but Zechs was sharp-eyed and good at reading subtlety from other men, and there was no doubting that Treize relaxed just slightly at his explanation.

 

It was irritating and Zechs didn't bother to hide that fact. “Oh, what's your issue now?” he snapped. “My gender preferences, or the notion that it's not a suitably manly question for Remy to be asking in the first place?”

 

It caught Treize completely on the back foot, unprepared for the surge of anger. “Zechs?” he asked, confused. “You've lost me,” he admitted. “I didn't say a word!”

 

“You didn't bloody need to,” Zechs flared, and turned on his heel to stalk across the shop.

 

Treize took a deep breath, then followed him more steadily. “Stop it,” he ordered evenly. “I didn't say a thing and I wasn't going to. I have _no issue_ with your 'gender preferences',” he insisted, “which you'd know if you'd stop looking for reasons not to. As for Remy asking, yes, it is an odd question, and not one I would have asked, but only because he could very easily have given you the wrong impression.”

 

Zechs turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Oh, please,” he snorted. “It was a question, not a come on!”

 

“It was a question I wouldn't have asked a woman I wasn't interested in,” Treize countered. “It could well be flirtatious. I'm not applying a double standard,” he pointed out, and rightly, “I'm applying the same standard.”

 

It was blunt enough to make Zechs turn to look at him properly. “Really?” he asked, and he looked doubting, still wary and very uncertain under it all. “You'd interpret that as flirting?”

 

“Yes, really. You wouldn't?” Treize wondered.

 

The blond shook his head. “No, of course not. At least, not from a man I know is straight. From Otto, or Ari, maybe, but even then, it would depend how they asked.”

 

They looked at each other for a moment, then Treize nodded. “Fair enough. I'm sorry,” he offered gently.

 

Zechs nodded. “So am I.”

 

He took a step closer, technically into personal space, and Treize wondered if the younger man were going to hug him. He'd not resist if he did, although it was perhaps not a location he'd have chosen.

 

Then the blond tipped his head slightly, flicking a look at Treize's throat and smiled softly. “I was right,” he said quietly. “That's lovely on you now.”

 

He waited until Treize blinked, inhaled, and flicked an eyebrow at finding Zechs was right, before patting him on the shoulder and walking away again, across the shop to the till to pay for Otto's present, pausing only to pick up the cologne on the way.

 


End file.
